Donnie Clemons

         Raven was dying. Her life’s blood spewed into space in the form of vaporous clouds mixed with hydraulic fluid. A few hours ago, while exploring the edges of Alliance space, the small scientific vessel accidentally came across a previously uncharted planet. Coming into a high orbit, Raven’s crew scanned the planet with powerful sensors that gave evidence of an advanced race on the verge of undertaking interstellar travel. As soon as the scans were finished, however, the planet’s defense systems kicked in to launch a sophisticated array of lethal weapons that devastated the ship, causing the defenseless science vessel to lose control and enter the planet’s outer atmosphere. Realizing the ship’s dire circumstance, Raven’s captain deployed a homing buoy that rocketed to a higher stationary orbit just above their position. Despite the crew’s best efforts to regain control, the tiny ship disintegrated in a ball of flames, leaving only the yellow elliptical buoy as a reminder of its existence.

         Iris was the only vessel in that far-reaching quadrant to respond to Raven’s signal. One fighter pilot on her bridge was particularly intrigued as the ship’s gravity crane pulled the yellow buoy with the flashing red beacon aboard.

          “With luck, the small computer inside the buoy has uploaded enough information from Raven’s computer to piece together what happened,” he suggested. “What’s next Commander?”

         “Why are you on my bridge, Jerkins?” Commander Mike Avery asked. “You should be in the hanger with the rest of the pilots.”

         “Ah, Mike. I was just curious.” Jerkins was always amused by the faces Avery made whenever he addressed him by his first name, especially if he did it in front of the bridge crew. The two had been friends for years and had even roomed together at the Academy for a while. Sometimes, even he wondered why Avery put up with him.

         “You know what’s next as well as I do.” Iris’s commander did another scan of the surface. Protocol required it, but before the initial scan was complete, the entities below attacked. Iris, however, was not a defenseless science vessel. Avery had his energy shields raised before the first missile locked onto the ship, and after one final attempt at contacting the inhabitants below, he decided it was time to defend his ship.

         “Time for you to earn your keep,” he bellowed at the pilot. “I’m going to tell the flight chief to scramble the onboard fighters for a retaliation strike within the alien atmosphere. I believe that would include you. Unless you intend to continue taking up space on my bridge.”

         “I guess there’s no need in both of us standing here wasting oxygen.” Jerkins raced for the fighter hanger. He could hear Avery’s growl behind him.

         In minutes, over fifty small fighters were engaged in air-to-air combat over the alien planet’s surface. The fighter pilots found their adversaries to be up to the challenge. Although the enemy did not appear capable of interstellar travel, their planetary defense fighters were every bit the equal of any the Alliance had.

         As soon as the conflict escalated, Commander Avery ordered his communications team to begin translations for any intercepted messages transmitted by the alien forces. Interception was not a problem. All alien communications occurred on easily captured common frequencies. The problem was translation. After running the intercepted transmissions through the most sophisticated translation-filters known to the Alliance, the computers totally failed to produce a translation of any kind. The communication experts were dumfounded by the results. Never in the history of the Alliance had the computers completely failed to translate an alien language. The experts listened to the digitized recordings and shook their heads at what they heard. The language consisted of a series of clicks and beeps occasionally emphasized by an undefined word. After hours of listening, the only sound repeated was a word sounding something like “sandrune”. That one word repeated often enough to make it recognizable, and within days, the entire Alliance began to refer to the new alien race as the Sandrune. The militant minds among the Alliance soon came to agree that the key to defeating the Sandrune was cracking the “code” they used to communicate. In the meantime, the war went on.

         For the crew of the Iris it had been the longest six days in the history of the Alliance. The battle for Sandrune, as the Alliance had dubbed the new planet, was not going well. Three more Alliance cruisers and a carrier were dispatched by the Alliance to joined Iris at Sandrune, but it would be weeks before they arrived. Avery asked for permission to back away from the planet and await reinforcements, but the request was denied. The Alliance did not want to give Sandrune a break in which to prepare for attack or launch a counter strike against the arriving fleet. Iris was forced to maintain the pressure. With a third of her fighter contingency already destroyed, both sides were feeling the pressure. Expressions were downcast on the command bridge as the fighter audio and video transmissions played for all to hear.

         “We’re in position, Alpha leader, ready to rumble.”

         “Copy, Delta one. On my mark, commence attack.”

         Those on the bridge became tense. Two squadrons were in position to commit to a major offensive against one of the Sandrune airbases on the surface. The Alpha Squadron leader was Jim Jerkins. Although a bit cocky, he was well liked among the crew and officers, even though some of the officers considered him arrogant. Affectionately known as “J.J.” by most of the crew, he also had their respect because of his skill and courage as a fighter pilot. A lot was riding on J.J. today and many lives depended on his ability. As the attack commenced, things quickly soured.

         “Abort! Abort, Alpha One! They’re on us!”

         “Roger that, Delta One. We have three enemy squadrons coming up behind us in a hurry. Abort and run program X-07. We’ll see you back at home base.”

         Avery and those on the bridge watched with trepidation as the fast moving Sandrune fighters overtook the Alliance ships. The attack came with surprise, and the results were devastating. Within minutes, the Alliance fighters were overwhelmed, and many hurdled to the surface, smashed into the alien soil, and burst into flames.

         Avery swore under his breath as he watched the scene unfold on the large video display on the bridge. The bridge crew groaned as they watched J.J. dive toward the surface in an attempt to elude a Sandrune fighter. Skimming the alien plains only a few feet off the surface, J.J. pushed his fighter to mach-12. The enemy ship stayed right with him. With a maneuver born of desperation, J.J. pulled a reverse loop and the enemy suddenly became the fox instead of the hound. J.J. quickly fired two rounds into the enemy’s tail section. The hit was vicious, sending molten shards of metal in all directions. J.J. attempted to pull away but was too close and passed through the shrapnel. A piece of foreign metal punctured his fuselage and flames spewed from the chasm. J.J. instinctively ejected from the cockpit, but at low altitude, the jet-powered ejection seat barely had time to kick in before slamming into the surface.

         Avery witnessed the crash through Iris’s onboard view screen and silently mourned the apparent loss of his friend. Amazingly, a distress signal sounded, and the ship’s computer pinpointed the exact spot where J.J.’s ejection seat went down. A cheer rose on deck as the crew realized their pilot still had a chance.

         On the surface, J.J. struggled to free himself from the ejection seat. Although engineers designed the seat to absorb the energy of a mach-12 ejection, his body felt strained, as if it had been suddenly compacted and then stretched to its limits. Once released from the safety harness, he fell into the loose soil, finding himself stranded on the planet surface. The air was breathable, but the temperature was intolerably hot. J.J. knew he would only last minutes under the alien sun and that he had to find some kind of shelter. On the horizon J.J. saw a structure, and after checking his sidearm and making sure his homing device was working, he headed for the low building. His breathing labored as he trekked across the desert toward the small structure. It appeared to be formed from bricks made out of the sand surrounding it. Making his way to the far side, J.J. found a low door. With sidearm drawn, he pushed it open and rushed inside. Four unsuspecting creatures were seated at a table inside. One let out a high-pitched squeal when he burst in. J.J did not speak. He simply held the weapon on the unfamiliar creatures at the table. Stunned, they sat quietly as he closed the door behind him.

         Apparently, the Sandrune were just beginning a meal. The four sat with triangular plates in front of them and several lidded containers were on the table. J.J. cautiously made his way to a chair on the opposite side of the room and sat with his gun aimed at the Sandrunes. He knew a rescue team would be dispatched. All he had to do was stay alive until the team got there. After his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he took a moment to study his captives. It appeared they were just general population, noncombatants in the war. At first, they seemed completely alien, but after the initial impression wore off, he began to notice the similarities between earthborn beings and the Sandrunes. They were bipeds with two arms ending in four digit hands. Their two eyes were large and dark, standing out against their loosely hung light gray flesh. The Sandrunes were hairless, at least on their heads, and their noses were short and upturned, exposing their nostrils. Two of the creatures were very small, obviously children. One of the adults had tears in its eyes. J.J. assumed her to be the mother. The other adult glared sternly at him. One of the children wailed, and the mother stiffened. The father pointed at the covered dishes on the table. Understanding, J.J. nodded, and the mother began to serve the food. J.J. could not identify the food, but it smelled good. After the food was served, the father clicked a few times, all heads bowed, and he emitted a series of clicks and chirps.

         My God, they’re praying, thought J.J.

         The alien heads raised and they began to eat with long narrow utensils. Midway through the meal, one of the children turned to look at J.J. Curiosity, not fear, glowed upon the young face. Before the mother could protest, the child was out of his seat and approaching the stranger to his world, to his home. J.J. raised his weapon but as the mother wailed, he lowered it again. This child meant no harm. He could feel it. The child stopped to take a square container from the table. He gingerly carried it to J.J. and extended his thin arm. J.J. took the container and sniffed at it uncertainly. It contained blue liquid he could not identify. The father picked up a similar container and drank from it deeply, obviously trying to convey that the drink was safe. J.J. turned up the glass and took a small sip. Finding it to be cold and sweet, he too drank deeply, quenching the thirst the desert terrain brought. When the container was empty, he returned it to the child and nodded his appreciation. For a moment, J.J. thought he detected a smile.

         A device on J.J.’s belt chimed. It was the homing device. The rescue squad was near. He stood slowly and saw the apprehension in the adult’s eyes. The children just stared innocently. Standard procedure called for J.J. to take this family prisoner for evaluation. J.J. tried to strengthen his resolve, but in the end, he could not do it. He turned and walked out the door. Moments later an armored personnel carrier landed and a marine captain stepped out.

         “Any locals in there?” he indicated the building.

         J.J. hesitated. “No, it’s empty.” He and the captain boarded the ship and departed.

         Once back on Iris, J.J. reported to sickbay for a check up and was placed in the ship’s hospital for overnight observations. His first visitor was Mike Avery.

         “That was a close call,” Avery said.

         “Too close for comfort,” J.J. admitted.

         “What was it like down there? You’re the first human to ever touch the surface and come back, you know.”

         J.J. laughed. “Yeah, I was a one man invasion force. It was hot and dry. No wonder the Sandrune are so tough. They’d have to be to live down there.”

         “Respect for the enemy?”

         “Just an observation.”

         “They’re killers, J.J. Cold blooded killers. They attacked without warning or provocation.”

         “Yeah, but maybe it’s just their military, not the general populace. What about the innocents down there?”

         “What about the innocents on Raven?” Avery countered. “The Sandrune didn’t seem to care about them.”

         “But what if they’re like us? What if they have families, wives, children? What if they believe in God?”

         “What are you talking about? Did you take a lick on the head or something?”

         “Just thinking,” J.J. responded.

         “Well stop thinking. It’s not good for a military pilot to think too much. Now get some rest. If you’re able, I have some shore duty for you tomorrow.”

         “Shore duty?” J.J. brightened. “Where, what for?”

         “The brass says they may have a way to break the Sandrune code, a device of some kind. I need somebody to go and get it on Arios. I thought maybe you could use the distraction.”

         “Arios?” J.J. frowned. “That’s a science space station, not exactly a jumping kind of place.”

         “It’ll get you off this tub for a day or two.”

         “I’ll be ready.” J.J. rolled over and pulled the covers up. Avery turned out the light as he left, but J.J. could not sleep. He kept picturing the Sandrune family. Except for their alien features, they could have been an earthborn family.

         The next morning, J.J. was well on his way to Arios when the Sandrune sun came into Iris’s port windows. At near light speed it would take him the better part of a day to get there, but he enjoyed the flight. Avery was right. The distraction was good for him. He flew straight to the space station in quiet solitude. After announcing his approach and putting his small fighter down in a shuttle hanger, J.J. checked in with the station’s management. He had dinner, chatted with a few of the locals, and had a nightcap at the local bar. J.J. slept well that night.

         The next morning he wanted to pick up the code device and head back as soon as possible. His orders were to meet a Doctor Waun in one of the station’s many science labs. After getting directions, he found the lab and Doctor Waun, a woman of Asian decent. She was a sterile, white-coated scientist who had little interest in small talk. Doctor Waun was all business.

         “I’m here for the code device,” J.J. explained.

         “We need just a few more minutes for fine tuning,” she pointed through a window into a sealed lab. J.J. fell silent with shock. Inside the lab was a group of children. All of them wore headsets and sat at computer terminals. With closed eyes and tight expressions, their fingers typed rapidly. There were six boys and girls in the lab. None appeared to be more than ten years old.

         “What’s this?” J.J. questioned.

         “Our code breakers,” Doctor Waun explained.

         “They’re children!” J.J. exclaimed in disbelief.

         “Well, yes. They are lab created and genetically enhanced. Each one is a genetically engineered savant. These particular children are auditory savants.”

         “What’s a savant?” J.J. asked.

         “Centuries ago, children were sometimes born with defects. Some of them had a brain defect called autism. A few of those autistic children were natural savants. Although they were mentally defective, many of these children were capable of amazing things. Some could play complicated music without training; some could paint even though blind. Over the past few years, we have been working to create savants with exceptional skills. We can create a savant with specialties beyond the limits of any computer the Alliance has. These children are auditory savants, programmed to be translators, or in your case, code breakers. She should be ready now.” Doctor Waun picked up a com link and called into the lab. “Bring out Number 3.”

         “Number 3? You mean they don’t have names?”

         “You need to understand,” Doctor Waun explained. “The only way to make a savant excel is to limit all external stimulation except those that enhance the desired trait. Stimulation other than auditory might ruin the programming.”

         “What kinds of stimulations?”

         “Any, other than auditory. We seldom touch them. They are completely mute and only communicate through a keyboard. Their vision is somewhat impaired, so that’s usually not a problem.”

         “You mean they’re blind?”

         “No, not blind. It’s just that they don’t see the way we do. Their vision is narrow. They don’t recognize faces because their concentration is so intense. They usually only see a nose or an ear. They recognize voices though and comply easily when commanded to do something.”

         “How can this be?” J.J. felt sorrow and repulsion toward the children.

         “It’s quite simple,” Doctor Waun explained. “We genetically strip away the outer layers of the brain…”

         “No!” J.J. stopped her. “I mean how can children be treated this way?”

         Doctor Waun laughed. “Well these aren’t really children. They are conceived in test tubes, and their womb is an artificial incubator. There are no mothers, no fathers. These are simply biological machines.”

         J.J. shook his head. The whole thing seemed amoral. The lab door opened, and a lab assistant stepped through with a little girl at his heels.

         “Stop,” the assistant commanded. The girl froze in place. Doctor Waun thanked the man and he returned to the lab.

         “We call it Number 3. It’s the best unit we’ve produced. Number 3 has been able to break the most complicated codes and languages we can produce. It’s a technological marvel.”

         J.J. looked down at the girl. She was tiny and had dark brown hair. Her eyes were blue, but they did not appear to focus on anything.

         “How old is she?” J.J. asked.

         “Nine, almost ten, earth years old. We’ve found they become less effective after they reach eleven or twelve. This unit is in its prime. We’ve programmed it to follow your voice commands. You’ll have to give it all shipboard commands. It will not follow anyone else’s direction.”

         “Now wait a minute. I’m a pilot. I can’t just stay on the ship with her all the time.”

         Doctor Waun gave J.J. a document. “I’m afraid there’s no choice in the matter. You’ve been given written orders from the highest levels of command in the Alliance. The unit will not function for anyone else. She is a biologic, and she will require some maintenance such as feeding and cleaning. Those responsibilities are yours now. To operate the unit all you have to do is place headphones on it and play the messages to be decoded. You will have to play continuous messages until the unit is able to grasp the language. Then it will type the translations on a keyboard. If you wish to respond to a message, simply talk to the unit and it will translate a reply for you in the decoded language.”

         J.J. lost his composure. “It, the unit, a biologic; you speak as though she’s a machine. She’s a child, a nine-year-old little girl, not some freaking machine! What’s the matter with you people? What gives you the right to do this to a child?”

         “Control yourself,” Doctor Waun insisted. “The unit is sensitive to high voice levels. This child, as you call it, is a construct, an engineered design. It was paid for with tax dollars and belongs to the Alliance, and it is the Alliance who gives me the right to do this.”

         J.J. looked down to find Number 3 with head tilted, listening so intensely her face was contorted. He reached down to stroke her hair, but Doctor Waun intercepted his hand.

         “The unit must receive minimal physical contact. Physical stimulation may interfere with its programming. Your task is simply to get Number 3 aboard the cruiser Iris, set it up for translation of the Sandrune code, and maintain the unit. It’s really a mundane task. Just do what you are ordered to do.”

         J.J. started to walk away and then noticed Number 3 did not come with him. Doctor Waun explained.

         “The unit responds to verbal command. Usually, single word commands work best. You don’t have to give commands for program subroutines, like going to the restroom. Just open a restroom door and the programming kicks in. The same applies to bathing and dressing. To get it to follow just say ‘follow’.”

         “Number 3,” J.J. called. The savant tilted her head to listen. “Follow,” he commanded and walked away with the child at his heels. He walked straight to his fighter, commanded Number 3 to ‘climb’ the ladder and ‘sit’ in the copilot’s seat. He took the fighter out and a moment later was cruising toward Iris at maximum speed.

         When he arrived at Iris, J.J. marched Number 3 straight to his quarters. He received some stares from fellow crewmembers along the way. Once inside, he soon had her fed, took her to the bathroom, and told her to ‘sleep’ in his spare cot. For several moments, he sat and stared at the little girl as she slept soundly, seemingly oblivious to the new surroundings and the stranger beside her. Then there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Mike Avery standing in the hallway with a disapproving look on his face.

         “What’s this about?” Avery demanded. “Have you got a kid on my ship?”

         “Shhh,” J.J. warned. “She’s asleep.”

         “What do you mean, she?” Avery bellowed.

         J.J. backed him into the hallway and closed the door.

         “She’s our code breaker,” J.J. explained. He went on to tell the entire story.

         “You’ve got to be kidding,” Avery hissed. “They sent us a child? I’m supposed to fight a war using code translations from a nine-year-old.”

         “They don’t think of her as a child,” J.J. explained. “They think of her as a machine, a biologic, an it.”

         “Well she looks like a kid to me, but I’m under orders to use Number 3 to break the Sandrune code. I always follow orders.”

         “Always by the book?” J.J. questioned.

         “Always, and you’ll go by the book too as long as you’re under my command. Whatever they told you to do to get this thing working, do it.”

         J.J. nodded agreement and then went back inside. He took one more look at Number 3 before climbing into his own cot.

         “So now you’re a thing,” J.J. whispered. He took a moment to pull the covers up over Number 3 and then returned to his cot and shut off the lights.

         The next morning J.J. pointed Number 3 toward the bathroom. She went in and after some time came out dressed and clean, except that her hair wasn’t brushed. J.J. told her to sit and then brushed her hair. An expression of amazement crossed the girl’s face, but J.J. didn’t notice. After breakfast, he took her to Communications. The communications officer gave the pair a strange look when they entered. He had been informed about the device, but it had been referred to as a machine, not a girl. When the nine-year-old came in behind J.J., she appeared more human than he expected.

         J.J. put the girl on a stool similar to the one Number 3 was training on in the lab. He put headphones on her. The officer suggested Number 3 start by trying to translate some of the early transmission broadcasts just after the initial attack. J.J. called up the file, and the computer played them through Number 3’s headphones. The girl’s face contorted as the message came through. She sat motionless for hours. This pattern would continue for days as message after message played for Number 3.

         Days later, Mike Avery walked into communications, obviously in a sour mood. He ignored the crewman that stood at attention, and he briskly approached J.J. His gaze was hard and cold as it fell upon the pilot and his young charge. His voice was sharp.

         “Has it done anything besides sit there with its face all screwed up like that?” He pointed at Number 3, whose face contorted while she concentrated on the messages played through her headphones.

         “Nothing’s changed,” J.J. replied. “She just sits. Her hands never touch the keyboard. I don’t know if she can do it.”

         “People are dying out there, J.J. She has to do it. We lost the entire Omega squadron about two hours ago.”

         Shock crossed J.J’s face. “The entire squadron, how can that be? There are 20 ships in a squadron - all of them?”

         “Every last one. We made them pay though. We made them pay dearly; hit them hard where it counts.”

         “What do you mean?” J.J asked.

         “We made a few surface strikes,” Avery explained. “Delta squadron raked up about ten square miles of surface.”

         A vision of the alien family whose home J.J. had invaded crossed his mind. “Civilians?”

         “No, it was a huge military base, but it was on the edge of a major city. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that we hit a few civilian targets.”

         J.J. shuddered for a moment.

         “What’s the matter with you? This is a war. Civilians die too. Maybe it will make them think before they take out another squadron.”

         “Maybe,” J.J. agreed half-heartedly.

         “We’re depending on this thing to work.” Avery again pointed at Number 3.

         “She,” J.J. interrupted.

         “What?” Avery scolded.

         “Number 3 is a she, not a thing.”

         “Are you getting soft on me? I don’t care if it’s a she, a he, or a thing as long as it gets the job done. All you’ve got to do is keep it working. She! Next thing I know you’ll want to name it. Well don’t. As I understand it, these units don’t function to capacity if they get too much physical or emotional attention. This isn’t a puppy, J.J. It’s a machine, a biological machine. Don’t get attached to it. When this is over, this thing goes back to the lab. I don’t know what they’ll do with it, but like most machines it will eventually become worn out or obsolete. When it does, it goes to the scrap yard.”

         J.J. winced at the thought. Could humans be that cruel? He looked at Number 3. Despite all that Avery and the scientists told him, he still saw a little girl, a child lost within herself with no hope of getting out. He shook his head at the thought. He was a soldier, a pilot. Above all else, he would follow orders. People were depending on Number 3 to crack the alien code. He was under orders to keep her working at it until the job was done, if it could be done. J.J. had his doubts as he looked at Number 3’s strained disposition. She was a pretty girl when she was not wearing the mask her current task created for her. J.J. turned away as he realized he once more dangled on the edge of breeching his orders. He would not allow himself to become attached to this child. He wondered at his inability to use the delineation, ‘it’, ‘machine’, or ‘thing’ as others did. ‘Biologic’, ‘unit’, even ‘savant’, seemed to be cold expressions to apply to a child. No matter how he tried, that was what J.J. saw sitting on the stool next to him. Number 3 was a child, a human child, and no adherent of science would change his mind.

         Hours later, J.J. took Number 3 back to his quarters. Another unproductive day had passed. He was restless and beginning to miss his old routine. Less than a week ago, he would have spent his days in the seat of his fighter - a dangerous, but never boring, occupation. Now, he wasted away his days babysitting for a nine-year-old translation device. He studied Number 3 for a moment. She was already in bed and sleeping soundly. J.J. knew she must be tired. The child had been forced to sit on a hard stool and listen to recordings for five days. He watched her breathe deeply in slumber, her face now relaxed. She looks like a normal little girl, he thought.

         Suddenly, the ship rocked and the lights went out. Frightened from her sleep, Number 3 bolted upright and screamed. In the dim glow of an emergency light, J.J. sat on the bed and attempted to comfort her. Number 3 continued to sob. In an instinctive act, J.J. put his arm around the child.

         “It’s alright, Number 3. It’ll be okay.”

         The shocked look on her face faded to confusion. She turned to look at J.J. as if noticing him for the first time. Reluctantly, J.J. pulled his arm away. Under the red glow of the emergency lamp, Number 3 continued to study his face. He stood up and her eyes followed him across the room. J.J. picked up his com link and punched in the code for Engineering. “Hello, Ed, what’s the problem?” he asked.

         “A coupling broke on a major fuel line that powers one of the main engines. The ebb in energy output caused transformer and other electrical damage all over the ship. We’re not in any danger. Our shipboard weapons are offline, but that’s not a problem because all the fighting so far has been fighter to fighter. Get some sleep, J.J. We’ll have current back online in the cabins in 20 minutes or so. The weapons system and some of navigation will be out for a day at least.”

         “What about communications?” J.J. worried.

         “Not a problem,” Ed answered. “Communications is on a different grid.”

         “Thanks, Ed.” Satisfied with the answer, J.J. returned to Number 3’s bedside. “See, it’s going to be alright, just a bit of equipment failure. That happens on a big ship like this from time to time. Go to sleep now, Number 3. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

         As usual, Number 3 followed J.J.’s directions and slid back under the covers. For a few moments, her eyes continued to follow J.J.’s movements until her eyelids became too heavy and she began to drift. Just before falling asleep, she did something she had never done before. Softly she muttered, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

         For a moment, J.J. was astonished. Then trepidation replaced his astonishment. He feared he had just crossed the line. In comforting the girl, had he disobeyed his orders? Had he damaged Number 3 by giving her too much physical or emotional attention? As he watched the sleeping girl, question after question ran through his mind. Then it hit him. She was responding to his words of comfort. Number 3 was expressing emotions; first fear, then comfort, but it was the last action that affected J.J the most. She had repeated his words, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Then she drifted off to sleep. It was an act of trust, he thought. Number 3 trusted him. She was not a machine. She was a human child.

         J.J. slept poorly. The next morning he wiped sleep from his eyes and prepared Number 3 for another day of attempted translation. When they entered communications, Avery was waiting.

         “I wanted you to be one of the first to know,” he warned J.J. “Orders have come down from the top. In four hours, we are to take Sandrune. The Alliance wants us to use the Planetary Obliteration Device. They’ve had enough of this. They believe the translation device you brought us has failed. It was our last hope at communicating with the Sandrunes.”

         J.J. was stunned. The P.O.D. was a controversial weapon of mass destruction. It disrupted matter at the molecular level, causing every molecule at the surface level of a planet to break apart. Use of the P.O.D. would spell the end of Sandrune and its people.

         “Isn’t there another way? There are billions of Sandrune down there, women and children,” J.J argued.

         “Where did this great concern for the Sandrune come from? They didn’t show any compassion for the pilots of that fighter squadron they destroyed yesterday. What about their families and their children? We’ve given up all the time and lives we can spare. We can’t lose another squadron while waiting for that thing to work. The price is too high.”

         “Can’t you give Number 3 a little more time?”

         “The Alliance wants us to send Number 3 back to the lab as soon as possible.”

         “What’s going to happen to her?

         “It’s my understanding they want to do some studies to see why the unit failed.”

         “What kind of studies?”

         Avery lowered his voice. “Biomechanical studies.”

         “Those monsters will kill her,” J.J. hissed through clinched teeth.

         “We have our orders,” Avery commanded. “In four hours we will drop the P.O.D. After that Number 3 will go back to the lab.”

         J.J. watched as Avery stormed from communications, leaving a string of stunned crewmen and junior officers in his wake. He sat on one of the stools for a moment. Memories of his brief encounter with the Sandrune family filled his thoughts. Finally, he got up, took Number 3 into a small office, and closed the door.

         “They’re asking too much of you,” J.J. said to himself as much as the child. “I know you can do it if you just have the time.” Tears came to J.J’s eyes as he knelt before her. Again, she noticed his face and a strange look of recognition crossed her countenance. “I need you to understand,” J.J. insisted. “There’s a whole race of people down there whose lives depend on you and your ability to understand them. I know that’s a heavy burden to place on a child, but we need you to do this. I need you to do this. Please!”

         J.J.’s tears flowed freely now. A tear dropped and splashed on the back of Number 3’s hand. She held the hand up and examined the damp spot for a second. Then, she reached out and wiped a tear from J.J.’s face. She looked straight into his face and whispered, “I’ll try.”

         The child astounded J.J. As soon as she made her announcement, she withdrew into herself. J.J. knelt in front of her, but she was distant, no longer showing signs of understanding. It only took J.J. a few minutes to decide what to do. He took the girl by the hand and led her out of communications.

         They went straight to the flight deck where the fighters were hangered. J.J. pulled Number 3 behind some empty fuel drums. >From this hiding place, he watched as fighters came in and out. Soon, he noticed a nearby fighter parked on the deck with the cockpit open. A technician was just removing the fuel hoses, meaning the ship was refueled and ready to go. As soon as the technician walked away, J.J. picked up Number 3 and made a dash for the open cockpit. The fighter only had one seat, so J.J put Number 3 in his lap. He put the harness around both of them and closed the cockpit canopy. When J.J. fired the engines, the cockpit radio immediately came to life.

         “Alpha 7, you’re not cleared for launch. Please shutdown.”

         J.J. turned the radio off. The flight deck doors were open because all fighters were on recall. Every pilot had to be inside and accounted for before the P.O.D. dropped. J.J. took advantage of the fighter recall and maneuvered the fighter through the open doors and into space. He set course for Sandrune.

         Things started to deteriorate once J.J brought the fighter into Sandrune air space. The fighter’s alarms sounded. Sensors picked up an incoming ground to air missile, and the missile was locked and homing. J.J made several evasive maneuvers, but the missile quickly reacquired and continued homing. J.J. checked his armaments. The onboard computer indicated the only weapon the fighter carried was a single Hornet missile. Reprimanding himself for not having the forethought to steal a fully armed fighter, he quickly programmed coordinates for the Hornet and fired. A moment later, the two missiles collided with a colossal explosion that shook the fighter violently. Too close, J.J. thought. Number 3 squirmed in his lap and he wondered if she was frightened or just uncomfortable. The child’s body heat made him sweat inside his flight suit, and the nervous tension of the situation did not help. J.J. dropped below Sandrune radar levels and skimmed the surface at a blistering velocity. An hour later, J.J. put the fighter down at the doorstep of the Sandrune family he had met on the day he crashed. It was a long shot, but he could think of no other Sandrune suitable to make contact. This has to work, J.J. thought as he popped the cockpit open and climbed down to the sandy soil.

         He had forgotten how hot the Sandrune surface was, but the blistering heat of the sand penetrated his boots, quickly reminding him. Knocking on the low door at one end of the squat building, J.J. waited patiently, his feet burned, and sweat soaked his clothing. Eventually, the door opened partially and the Sandrune J.J. assumed to be the father of the house peered through the crack. J.J. was gambling on intuition. He knew the Sandrune family might call planetary authorities to take him, or they might simply turn him away. For a moment, J.J. thought he had gambled wrong, but then the Sandrune saw Number 3 nestled in his arms and his features softened. After a moment’s hesitation, the door swung open and J.J. entered the Sandrune home, relieved from the heat and a portion of his anxiety.

         The Sandrune seemed perplexed as he and J.J. faced off inside the house. Unable to communicate, J.J felt awkward. Number 3 squirmed in his arms and he put her on the floor. His chest cooled quickly where the sweating child had rested. J.J. heard a sound from one of the connecting rooms and the Sandrune mother and two children appeared in a doorway. The female’s face expressed shock at seeing him, the children’s expressed inquisitiveness. The two ran to Number 3 as if she were a magnet and the mother gasped in horror. J.J. held up his hands to show he meant no harm and the male barked a command at the female, quieting her. J.J. watched as the two children tugged at Number 3’s strange clothes and examined her shoulder length hair. They spoke to her and then to each other when she did not respond. They began to pull her around the room, one at each arm, making childish noises. They were playing, J.J. realized. Number 3 seemed confused by it all, but she did not resist. She was wearing the mask of concentration she used when decoding language. She was listening to their voices. The Sandrune male gestured toward the chairs at a table in the room and he and J.J. sat down. The Sandrune woman joined them reluctantly, her eyes never leaving the children. The Sandrune man pointed to her and said, “Narsha” in guttural tones, and placed his finger on his chest and said “Wornt”. Understanding, J.J. pointed to himself and called his name. He then tried to tell the Sandrunes about the P.O.D. but that only caused confusion and more tension. One of the children left the room and came back with an electronic device, obviously some type of toy. The alien children pulled Number 3 to the floor and they sat around the device. J.J. noticed it had a complex keyboard on it with symbols he did not recognize. One of the children quickly typed a message and pressed a key. The machine spoke the phrase typed in what J.J. assumed to be a maternal Sandrune voice. The other child took the machine and typed a response, then passed it to Number 3. She sat motionless, listening. The first child typed out a message and the rotation continued again and repeated for some time. Each time the toy came to Number 3 she ignored it.

         “We don’t have time,” J.J. was trying to explain to the Sandrune adults. “Your world is in danger.”

         The Sandrunes just looked bewildered and did not respond.

         J.J. looked at his watch, only an hour left. Time was running out. The Sandrune machine continued to sound as the children sat on the floor and passed it between them, the Sandrune children giggling and Number 3 lost in her own world. J.J. wished he could join her wherever she was. It was clear now that he was not going to be able to communicate with the Sandrunes, and Number 3 was lost in a place of her own making. When the P.O.D. dropped that might be the best place to be, he thought. He watched her strained face and wished that for just a moment she could sit and play with the Sandrune children in a normal fashion just once before it was too late.

         Suddenly, Number 3’s eyes burst open. She grabbed the toy from the Sandrune children and quickly typed a message. The machine sounded and the children sat in stunned silence and then broke into what appeared to be a cheer. Number 3 quickly passed it to the next child who typed in a message and the game continued. Most times when Number 3 entered a message the Sandrune children cheered, but sometimes they moaned in disappointment and corrected Number 3’s entry. The adults gathered around the game, Wornt shaking his head in disbelief. Number 3 anxiously typed in messages and shoved the machine toward the next child. The game took on a frantic pace and J.J. checked his watch, ten minutes. Number 3 grasped the machine by the edges but did not enter a message. She turned her head toward J.J. and whispered in an anxious pitch, “I have it!” Then she faded back into herself.

         J.J. snatched Number 3 from the floor and ran for the door. He rushed to the fighter and burned his hands as he climbed the sun-heated ladder into the cockpit. Once inside he set the ship’s radio to the Sandrune common frequency and put the shipboard computer keyboard in Number 3’s lap. Messages poured in and J.J. read them on the monitor as Number 3 typed the translations. He could not believe what he was reading. Switching the radio to the Alliance emergency channel, he immediately contacted Iris.

         “This is Captain Jerkins. Patch me through to Commander Avery.” Within seconds, Avery was on.

         “J.J. what is this about? I’ll have your wings for this!”

         “Mike, listen! Number 3 broke the code. I’m patching the translation to the messages the Sandrunes have been sending via computer. It has all been a mistake! The whole war has been one big accident! They’ve been trying to tell us, but we couldn’t understand. It was our scans. When Raven scanned the Sandrune surface, they activated their planetary defenses. It was something to do with the frequency of the scan. Their computers interpreted it as an attack and shot Raven down. You have to stop the P.O.D.!”

         “J.J. the P.O.D. dropped one minute ago. There is no way to recall or self-destruct it. If it detonates within the Sandrune atmosphere, the entire planet will be destroyed. If it detonates too close to the ship, we will be destroyed. If I turn the ship and move as far away from the plant as possible there should be a one mile cushion just outside the atmosphere that could make for a safe detonation. The problem is that our weapons are still offline. Our records show you have one Hornet missile on that fighter. The timing is tight, but if you can pull it off, we might all make it.”

         “I’ll take care of it,” J.J. replied. He acted instinctively. Climbing back out of the cockpit, he carried Number 3 back into the Sandrune house and pushed her into the arms of the Sandrune woman.

         “Take care of her!” he said and ran back out to board the fighter and takeoff. He picked up the P.O.D. on the ship’s radar and set coordinates to intercept.

         “J.J. what are you doing?” came Avery’s voice over the radio.

         J.J. turned it off. “What has to be done,” he replied to himself. With no weapons onboard, J.J. knew there was only one hope for the Sandrune people. He pushed the throttle forward, knowing he had to get to the P.O.D. before it entered the Sandrune atmosphere. Within seconds, he had a visual. The fighter slammed into the P.O.D. and exploded just outside the Sandrune atmosphere.

         Aboard Iris, Mike Avery lowered his head as he watched the disruption. He knew the Sandrune people and his ship were safe, but he mourned the loss of his pilot. Static roared on the bridge speakers, but as the static broke up a signal came through.

         “It’s the homing beacon, Captain!” the communications officer yelled. “He ejected inside the Sandrune atmosphere.” Cheers erupted on deck.

         “Nobody should have that much luck,” Avery said with a smile. “Send the rescue squad to get that idiot, and find that communications unit he took with him.”

         The communications officer interrupted excitedly. “Captain, Jerkins uploaded the translation the code device supplied before impact. As soon as we plugged the translations into the computer we were able to unravel the entire Sandrune language. We can talk to them, sir.”

         “Well, don’t we have some Alliance political ambassadors onboard? I suggest we put them to work and get this mess straightened out.”

         A few hours later J.J. was in sickbay, and Avery was there to greet him.

         “You’re the luckiest fool I’ve ever known. The doctors say you are a little broken up but you’ll heal,” Avery said. “What am I supposed to tell the Alliance? You took a fighter without permission and then you destroyed it. You broke about every regulation in the book on this one. Of course, you also saved a race of people from being destroyed. That might get you out of this mess.”

         “What about Number 3?” J.J. asked.

         “The unit has been… retired. It was checked out and the scientists say the physical and emotional stimulus it received ruined it. It’s useless. They don’t even want it for scrap. They said I could dispose of it anyway I like.”

         “What are you going to do with her?”

         “That depends. You know you’ve been at this fighter pilot business a long time. You’re due to retire yourself. I’ve been told I can sell the unit to a civilian buyer if one makes an offer. I’d say a couple of credits would be enough.”

         J.J. reached into his flight suite and pulled out two credits. “Consider it done. I’m getting a little tired of those ejection seats anyway. Besides, I know a few commercial outfits that are dying for good pilots.”

         “Guess I better deliver the goods then,” Avery left sickbay and a few minutes later returned with Number 3. “She’s all yours.”

         J.J. threw his arms around Number 3. She looked closely at his face and smiled briefly before receding back into herself.

         “You did it Number 3. I’m so proud of you.”

         As he held her close, she whispered. “For you. I did it for you.”

 

 

Copyright 2006, Donnie Clemons

Donnie Clemons' work has appeared in Amazing Journeys Magazine, The Northwoods Journal, and a few antholgies.  He has two published novels. 

Donnie Clemons teaches and coaches at the middle school level.

 

 

Cover: "Viking Funeral"

Copyright 2006, Karl Eschenbach

Karl Eschenbach was born in 1950, right in the middle of the last century. He was raised in a military family and traveled throughout the United States. He survived college in the 60's and 70's, and is now a grandfather in Albuquerque, NM. 

He has had 15 illustrations, 15 short stories, two essays and one poem published.