That may or may not be true, depending on the condomnaut. But the trouble is, all astronauts, who tend to be a pretty superstitious lot, believe it blindly. So it’s taken for granted that if a Contact Specialist shows an obvious preference for any of the members of his crew, that favoritism will automatically generate awkward jealousies and suspicions in any small group of humans isolated for long periods. And a hyperjump ship crew is necessarily a small group of people.
So we’ve been ordered—well, to be fair, that’s too strict a term, even for a directive from overbearing Miquel; let’s say—it has been earnestly recommended of us that we try to “avoid certain group dynamics.”
But what with the immensity of space, and how far we are from home, and how lonely watch duty can be, and how weak the flesh is, and on the other hand how hard and appetizing Jordi Barceló’s flesh is…
The fact of the matter is, one night something on the not recommended list did happen. And it was definitely worth it.
With all that brawn, Jordi Barceló turned out to be quite the sex bomb. For a Catalan.
I enjoyed our hookup so much that I opened up to him that night, telling him a few things about my past that I tend not to let on to, such as the bit about Elpidio Valdés, one of my childhood idols.
The catch was, the selfish brute then got the idea that he could enjoy my “services” every now and then—which wouldn’t have been very disagreeable, after all—but also that I had to be his secret and exclusive property. Always be available, that is, for his and only his sexual whims. And without letting anyone else know about our arrangement, too.
Of course I refused that sort of secret slavery, but then the great big whiner went to the captain himself and accused me of having seduced and raped him—and him always such a strict heterosexual until I used my Caribbean wiles to lure him into the bunk, blah blah.
Ha. Needless to say, regardless of his feudal Catalan name, Captain Ramón Berenguer proved to be eminently just and open-minded. Instead of automatically siding with his fellow Catalan against the foreigner, he merely reminded Jordi in a voice dripping with irony and diplomatic tact that he, Jordi, stands six foot three and looks like Hercules’ twin brother, whereas I’m barely five foot seven. So, Berenguer figured, the claim about a rape was just a crude lie from a spiteful lover.
As for getting himself seduced, good for him! Welcome to the flexible-views club. About time he gave up his narrow, old-fashioned ideas, which are especially anachronistic in an astronaut. The captain heartily congratulated him, because the life of a poor heterosexual on a ship crewed by women and men who are as bisexual as most humans in the twenty-second century must have been hell. Especially considering that three of the four women on the ship could hardly look at him without feeling an automatic urge to smack him.
The reprimand worked, of course. When a jealous, spiteful coworker tries to undermine you, it tends to help if you’ve had an earlier fling (brief but warm) with your captain.
I feel nervous as fuck. Still thinking about stuff that has nothing to do with Contact. As if the crew of this mountain-sized silver sphere cared about the gossip among our crew.
And what if they’re telepaths? Shit.
Great first impression I’d be making.
But it’s not like I can change the course of my rambling thoughts. I’m only human, damn it. Could you keep from thinking the word “rhinoceros” for fifteen seconds if you were told your life depended on not thinking it?
If so, then by all means, come trade places with me. For the good of all humanity, and especially of one very scared-shitless guy.
No takers? Just as I expected.
All up to me.
“Yes, I’m moving, Jordi. The Dralgol is a two-seater, and they must already have an estimate on our body size, so I just wanted to give them time to see that I’m here alone.”
That’s not good enough for the touchy bastard; in fact, the cure is worse than the disease. His close-shaven, big-jawed face trembles with offended dignity in the tiny holographic image inside my helmet visor.
“Don’t call me Jordi, Cubanito! It’s Third Officer Barceló to you. In fact, better make that Third Officer Barceló, sir.”
Yeah, my bad luck I went to bed with him. I won the elephant in the lottery, as Diosdado used to say.
Fortunately for me, Barceló’s pompous scolding gets cut off by a swift series of flashing lights that come from the Alien ship, backed up by matching sounds. Smart idea: they don’t know if we’re a visual species. I can’t make heads or tails of it, but the computer in my suit says it’s a string of prime numbers (and presumably Jordi can confirm this on the Gaudí’s computer if need be). The classical mathematical sequence, one that no natural process generates. Your typical Contact code.
Apparently they also think I’m dawdling.
As if to underscore the point, an entrance mysteriously opens at the bottom of the ship, down where it nearly touches ground. A huge entrance, like five hundred meters high. So this is how their vehicles were entering, those times when it looked like they were simply fusing with the ship: temporary hatches. Controlled surface tension, perhaps?
A sudden suspicion consequently strikes me: what if the entire ship isn’t made of matter but energy, like my pet, Diosdadito?
Hell, why’d I have to think about my little pet? What I wouldn’t give to be back home in Nu Barsa, safe and sound, playing with him.
But somebody’s gotta put the frijoles on the table.
Hmm, energy. That could be why Amaya hasn’t been able to pick out individual crew members on the ship: it’s all energy, they’re all energy. Living energy.
The possibility of understanding between creatures composed of matter—such as humans and almost all Aliens we’ve met so far—and creatures of pure energy are next to null. We simply move on different frequencies, even if we do so in the same universe.
Fortunately, so far we haven’t discovered any intelligent energy-based species.
Or maybe Diosdadito is intelligent, and we just haven’t figured it out yet.
For that matter, if he is, would he have noticed our reasoning ability?
Fragile bags of protoplasm—not like we’d seem rational to him.
Anyway. Then there’s the even worse possibility of running into creatures made of antimatter.
That would make for a truly explosive Contact.
Good thing humanity hasn’t gotten mixed up in such an incident, yet.
The Furasgans say they once went through that experience. It’s not something they want to repeat.
Luckily, Amaya hasn’t detected the peculiar sort of photon emissions you’d get from matter–antimatter annihilation, or any Cherenkov radiation. No, I shouldn’t be thinking about antimatter, or energy, or even Diosdadito. Though… oh, how clearly I can picture him, moving with his beautiful, constantly shifting forms and colors along the ceiling of my comfy Nu Barsa apartment. At home. Every time I see that purring, affectionate, lazybones kitty Antares, it reminds me so much of him…
No, I shouldn’t be thinking about my energy pet, or remembering Antares or Antares’s owner. I should be concentrating on Contact. Empty your mind…
Okay, this is good: the sensors in my suit aren’t picking up any changes in the electromagnetic fields of this XXXXXL-size ship. One less thing to worry about. Simple, solid, conventional matter. If these guys aren’t pure energy, could it be a bioship, like the ones the Kigrans and the Algolese use? That also would render the biometer pretty much useless.
A chill runs down my back. Could be out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Last year I got to make Contact with the monstrous rorquals of Kigrai. That is, of Alpha Ophiuchi, according to the naming system of ancient Earth star charts. They also use biotech. But each individual grows up to half a kilometer long (females, slightly less). As if that’s not enough, their genitalia are to scale.