TITLE:        The Dig at Site 16-Alpha  (part 1 of 2)
AUTHOR:       David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY:     S, A
KEYWORDS:     Post-col
RATING:       PG
SUMMARY:      In the resistance struggle, salvation may come 
              from a great distance.        
SPOILERS:     Mytharc/Colonization         
ARCHIVE:      Fic "take-out." You order; I'll bicycle it over.
DISCLAIMER:   No infringement is intended, even with the 
              slightest of mentions.     
FEEDBACK:     dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
NOTE:         A response to IWTB's "Memorial Day" Challenge, with
              inspiration provided by the authors Mimic 117 and 
              the late (later than you think) Fritz Lieber.


In his career, he's never carried out a brief with more riding 
on it. The decision to name him mission commander had been a 
unanimous decision by the Resistance Council, now an 
international, if ex-officio, body.  It's a mission that, even 
now, as it nears its completion, he feels utterly unqualified 
for.

He'd protested, of course. He had none of the appropriate 
background or training for space flight. He'd had no flight 
training. In fact, he didn't even like to fly. He'd likely get 
space-sick. For heavens' sake, before the invasion he'd really 
been nothing more than a cop with a desk job, albeit a 
prestigious, titled one. He was no astronaut, and it had been 
years since he'd been in the field with a military command. His 
main objection, however, stated and restated before the council, 
was that the endeavor was too important to bear the dead-weight 
and waste the space he'd take up. 

But, all of his objections had been summarily brushed aside by 
the council. Others chosen for this extraordinary service, he 
was assured, had the requisite flight skills, scientific or 
crypto-linguistic acumen. The team the council had assembled for 
him was as qualified as any in the world. The fact that no one 
in the world was qualified for this precise duty was something 
best forgotten. The mission had to be undertaken. There was no 
other option.

He'd been part of the team that had assaulted and brought down 
one of the alien ships during the first hours of colonization. 
It had been his decision to remove only the ship's computer core,
over the vocal objections of others who wanted to cannibalize 
weapons or find ways with which to turn the ship itself against 
its builders. His had been the right decision. The ship they'd 
created was proof.

It had taken Resistance scientists days to understand even the 
rudiments of the aliens' fluidic computing process, and a week 
or more in which to surmount the challenges of decrypting data 
files that were part solid state, part biologic memory engrams. 
It was sheer luck that the maintenance files and plans for the 
ship and its hyper-light drive were kept in the least encrypted 
forty percent of the data. They'd been able to construct an 
approximation of the alien propulsion system, what his engineer 
had taken to calling the Lux drive, and fit it within a booster 
rocket bought years before out of the bankruptcy of a commercial 
space venture.

A junior officer enters and salutes. He returns the salute, 
even though his military service was decades past, and though 
the junior officer would have outranked him, back then. The 
officer hands over a report from one of the dig sites, turns 
on heel and leaves, smartly. He scans the report quickly and 
feels the soft flush of satisfaction. Twenty days in, the digs 
are finally producing results.

The initial scans of the planet would have augured otherwise. 
Probe telemetry simply confirmed what they could see from the 
on-board telescopes during final approach. It was an arid world, 
with an atmosphere too methane-rich and oxygen-poor to sustain 
life. There were traces of water, probably in the form of ice, 
at both poles. The present state of this world's affairs was not 
why they'd come, however.

When the first probe data had come back, the crew had very nearly
rioted. It had little to do with the working conditions ahead of 
them, which have proven to be just as unbearable as advertised. 
Nor did it have anything to do with the lack of compensation for 
such hazardous duty. Every single one of the crew members had 
accepted these conditions before signing on. At the same time, 
they'd acknowledged and accepted even harsher realities than 
those more mundane complaints.  

Each moment spent in the wastes of interstellar space kept them 
away from the defense of their homes and families. Each hour 
devoted to this mission was liable to result in the deaths of 
countless numbers of innocent lives, their friends and loved 
ones. Every day spent out here would be one which each member of 
the crew could have spent in the vital, active defense of the 
planet. A living, green planet with blue seas and crystal clear 
air. Not at all like the one in front of them, an ochre yellow 
ball within a sickly white shroud.

There was one condition, however, that was absolutely 
unacceptable. This mission had to succeed. It could not be a 
fool's errand.

It came down to this. The Resistance scientists who had looted 
the alien database had also produced a peculiar star-chart, 
listing every one of the planetary systems invaded and, 
inevitably it seemed, conquered by the alien colonists. And now, 
that juggernaut was headed their way. But, as daunting as the 
roster of fallen worlds might have made it seem, the linguists 
and the astrophysicists persisted in deciphering it all. And 
they were rewarded.

Apart from the legion of the vanquished, there was one world 
which the aliens had designated as forbidden territory. It was 
a world to be avoided, one that had resisted the inexorable 
progress of the colonists and, according to the sketchy records, 
had resisted ferociously. This poor, sickly yellow ball. The 
Resistance Council had wasted no time in marshaling  personnel 
it could hardly spare for the mission, shanghaiing its commander, 
and pushing up the completion of the ship by a matter of months. 
Such was the priority placed on finding the one dot among all 
the stars in the heavens that had repelled the conquerors.

The mutinous sentiments came as no surprise to the mission 
commander. The worst thing for a combat unit and, make no 
mistake, that's what this was, is inaction. The mission 
commander knew this from his days in the jungle, leading a 
special forces squad. While the ship was en route, the crew had 
nothing to occupy them except for uncertain thoughts of what lay 
ahead, and certain knowledge of the struggle they'd left behind. 
Once they'd landed, just as the commander had known, action had 
galvanized the crew and made them resolute in their purpose. 
They dispersed to two dozen different sites spaced across the 
planet, establishing a network of archeological digs and 
beginning their vital exploration.

Still, anxiety lingers on in every member of the crew, across 
the whole wasted expanse. The mission commander himself is no 
exception. But, in front of the crew, he betrays not the 
slightest doubt, nor failure of nerve.  When a subordinate 
mouths off about the dim prospects of discovering anything of 
use here while back home his hands and strong arms would be of 
great help, the commander neither yells, nor rebukes. Only 
points to the ochre sands and says, "This was a world that not 
only fought back; this was a world that resisted them, and won."

"Care to let your hair down, Sir?" It has been a running joke 
between them, almost since the day mission assignments were 
handed down. She is the only person he trusts enough to actually 
do so. 

"Sure, X.O. I might just be tempted to do that. If I had 
any hair," the commander growls. His executive officer never 
fails to smile at the punch line, though she waits dutifully to 
be invited in before crossing through the hatch into his cabin.

"Seen the dailies, Sir?" She has a stack of faxed reports in 
hand.

"Yeah," he replies, putting a kettle of water on an electric 
ring heater. "All but two or three."

"Pretty encouraging stuff." The tone of the X.O.'s voice is 
anything but enthused.

The commander adjusts his glasses atop his nose, and looks 
skeptically at her. 

"But?"

He lifts the steaming kettle off the ring and pours boiling 
water into each of two cups, set out on his desk. He hates the 
freeze dried stuff, and so does she. But fresh food and drink 
require refrigeration and extra storage, unnecessary luxuries on 
a ship as starved for space as a fleet submarine, the infamous 
'steel coffin,' of the last world war.  So, freeze dried it is.

"But," she draws out the word for as long as it takes to accept 
the proffered mug and warm her hands on its surface. "We still 
haven't found the physical remains of any of the beings who 
lived here. We're not even sure whether they called this rock 
home, whether they were just using it to draw the colonists away 
from another world, or whether this is simply the place they 
chose to make their last stand."

"Are these doubts I'm hearing, X.O.?" He gestures for her to 
stand easy, then sit. "Doubts about our mission? Or doubts about 
our current location?"

"Call them," she hesitates a moment, then says, "insecurities 
about our location, Sir. You and I both know that this miraculous
"Lux" drive the Chief is so proud of probably won't have enough 
juice to get us home again, let alone ferry us to another 
planetary system and then home. Even if we did have the time to 
waste. No, it's here or nothing, Sir."

"Then, what is it?" 

He sits casually, propping his feet up on the desk. The exec 
follows suit, but only to a point. She sits on the couch along 
the wall, turned a quarter to face her superior officer, cup 
held primly in her lap. Her posture is ramrod straight even when 
sitting, betraying a family history of military bearing. Legs 
crossed at the ankles are the only clue that she sits easy.

"I'd feel at lot more confident if I had some of idea of what 
we're supposed to be looking for."

"What are you trying to say? You've seen the same laundry list I 
have." His eyes narrow. He knows from experience that she's not 
one to express reservations unless there's actually something to 
them. "The tech geeks back home were pretty specific about what 
our likely search targets should be, and where and how deep we 
should go to look for them."

"Yes, Sir. I know." She stares into the steam rising from her 
cup, then looks up to meet his eyes. "But, that's just it. It's 
a list. I wouldn't call it a laundry list, though. More like a 
shopping list. Look for this but, if you can't find it, look for 
that. If you can't find that..." 

She looks as if she's got something else to say, but isn't sure 
whether she should.  

Obviously, the X.O.'s frustration merely echoes that of the crew. 
He's learned to trust that.

"Go on."

"Sir! We need to cut the list and focus on a single priority." 
She stops, but only to take in breath for the rush to come. "If 
we think it's a weapon we're after, then tell the teams to be on 
the lookout for odd looking gun barrels. If we think it's most 
likely a vaccine, then tell them to look for test tubes and, I 
don't know, microscopes. But, if it turns out that the beings 
who lived here simply had a natural immunity? Well, then we'd 
better start digging up some bones and hair pretty damned quick, 
or else we're fucked. Sir."

He grunts. This is just the type of pessimistic, destructive 
talk he will not abide from the crew. But it's precisely what he 
needs and expects from his second-in-command.

She's uncomfortable with the silence that follows, however. "My 
personal opinion?" 

He nods.

"We should be looking for remains. I think the species 
that lived here must have had a natural immunity. That's the 
only rational explanation. From what we've found so far, it 
doesn't appear as if these beings were advanced enough 
scientifically to have developed a complex vaccine, or 
militarily to field a weapon capable of beating back the colony 
ships. Sir, there isn't even any evidence that these beings had 
reached the point of developing space travel. So, it must have 
been a natural immunity. They were just too primitive a species 
to have escaped colonization any other way. "

The commander's features have tightened, his eyes becoming slits. 
The X.O. recognizes these as warning signs, but she's gone too 
far to stop now. Her conclusion voices the deepest fear of every 
man and woman on this mission.

"Even if we do find remains, and are able to extract enough 
genetic material to find the markers that gave them immunity - 
and that, in itself, is no sure thing - who's to say that we'll 
be able to adopt that immunity to our physiology? And, if we 
can't?"

They're fucked. And so is everyone back home. He knows this. But,
even though the opinion is expressed in the privacy of his 
quarters, by an officer whose discretion is reliable to a fault, 
this is a heresy he doesn't want considered. Not even in the 
depths of their fears.

Even with the X.O., there is a line.

"I get the point, Major."

And addressing her by rank is the clear signal that she's 
crossed over it.

"As for the people who lived on this planet? We don't know how 
primitive they were. Space travel? Until one year ago, when we 
stole alien technology, that monstrosity the chief is so proud 
of, and jury rigged it to fit this ship, we hadn't have gone any 
further out into space than the moon. Does that make us 
primitive?"

He hasn't raised his voice, but she hangs her head as if she'd 
just received the dressing-down of her career. When he continues,
his tone is more subdued, respectful of her anxiety, but 
unwilling to let it guide them.

"Look, we don't know much about these people, true. We don't 
have the luxury of taking our time to find out about them, 
either. But, from what little we've learned, they had an evolved 
society. There's evidence of high culture, technological 
innovation, even means of mass communication. Were they as 
advanced a civilization as we are? We may never know the answer 
to that. But, what we know for sure is that they were successful. 
They beat back a colonization attempt by the Grays. So, however 
primitive these people might seem, X.O.? They're still one up 
on us."

The exec rises, but stands looking at her feet, the starch 
beaten out of her bearing by the undeniable truth of his reproof.

"Sir," she says quietly, "I meant no disrespect. To you, or to 
them."

"Well, on behalf of an entire race, none of whom I ever had the 
pleasure of meeting, X.O.?" He looks up and graces her with a 
rare smile. "No offense taken." He rises then, as well, and 
rounds the desk, hand extended. 

It's a curiously civilian gesture, and she looks at his hand 
curiously for a moment before reaching out and shaking it.

"I don't often get the opportunity to tell you just how much I 
appreciate your candor."

The X.O. is surprised at this very personal admission on the 
commander's behalf, but keeps her embarrassment at bay. Her 
blush will wait until sometime later, when she's in the privacy 
of her own quarters, and her own thoughts.

"There is one more observation I ought to make, Sir. Uh," she 
allows herself the briefest of smiles, "seeing as how you 
appreciate my candor."

He comes to parade rest in front of her, chin held high, 
awaiting stoically whatever else she has to say.

"Right." The exec looks to the very walls of the hull for 
support. "There's one other thing we know for sure about these 
people and their planet. In the end, they were obliterated from 
the universe. Even though these people apparently found some way 
to resist colonization, Sir, look around you. It obviously 
didn't last."

He takes a long breath, making her wait for his response.

"Nothing lasts, Major. Time itself winds down eventually."

"Yes, Sir." It's a whisper, barely audible.

"You'll need to ride herd over the excavation teams, X.O. Chief 
says that, at the rate the Lux drive is being drained, we lift 
off in seventy-two hours or we don't lift off at all. So. I want 
all the digs wrapped up within two solar days, no matter what 
they have or have not found, am I clear?"

The exec snaps to attention and salutes, a confident smile firmly
back in place. "Yes, Sir!"

He returns the salute, with a feeling of great pride in his 
young officer. "Oh, and Major?" 

She sticks her head back through the opening in the bulkhead. 
"Sir?"

"Find those three missing daily site reports and get them to me 
on the double, will you?"

The X.O. nods curtly, and disappears down the corridor. He hears 
her yell the cry familiar to any personnel sharing cramped 
spaces. "Make a hole!" And they do, those crew who remain on 
board, allowing her quick and unimpeded passage aft. 

He stands, staring after her for several minutes, steeping in 
regret. He hasn't been entirely honest with his exec. There is a 
better than even chance that they're going to end up with only 
enough power for one last transmission back home, telling of 
their success or failure. If that's the case, then they won't be 
lifting off in seventy-two hours. They won't be lifting off at 
all.

He pulls up the images of the dailies from the sites that had 
reported in as scheduled. There are hundreds of artifacts that 
have been discovered so far, and they're fascinating. The 
deserts covering this planet hide a rich history, of that he's 
certain. It's too bad that they won't have the time to delve 
deeper and explore it more fully, for it's a rare opportunity.

The aliens' fluidic database catalogues their rampages across 
almost incomprehensibly vast reaches of the cosmos. When they'd 
finally deciphered the last of the database, the astrophysicists 
in the Resistance tech division had been dumbfounded to learn 
just how few worlds in all that vastness held intelligent life. 
Though, to be fair, this assessment was based upon the aliens' 
own characterization of intelligence. 

"If they've been observing our governments back home for as many 
years as we think, then I'm not sure they'd classify us as 
intelligent, either," he says aloud to the empty room.

It's a shame, therefore, that, with so few out there among the 
stars, they won't have the chance to uncover and learn about 
this one, which had flourished once and now lay under the sands 
just beneath their feet.

From behind him, someone clears her throat. He turns, surprised 
to find the exec standing just outside his cabin, bouncing on her
toes with barely contained excitement. He wonders just how long 
she's been standing there and whether she heard him mumbling to 
himself.

"Sir? May I?"

"Yes, yes," he says, waving her in. "What is it, X.O.?" His 
voice holds more irritation than he truly feels.

"The field reports from the last three sites, Sir." She walks 
straight over to the data port, and slips in a disc. Images 
appeared immediately on the liquid crystal display. 

"Our hosts," she says, awe shimmering in her voice.

"Holy shit."

"Yes, Sir." 

- end (1/2) -