Stephen Dedman - Tour de Force

Illustration by Ron Chironna

The road to Kalbarri looked as though it hadnt been improved since the turn of the century, and the Niva parked at the pump ahead of me was covered with dust the color of bad sunburn. I was sure it wasnt Sergeinothing would have persuaded him to drive a Russian car this far from a city, not even Ultra Secretbut I sat there and practiced pretending not to know him for a few seconds before opening the door. That was a mistake; Id thought Perth was hot, but this was torture, and I almost wished Id worn a skirt. At least theyd done something about the flies.

There was a youngish blond couple slumped in the snack bar when I went in to pay for the petrohol. The old woman behind the counter took my Visa card and staredI almost expected her to bite it, to see if the gold was realand then scuttled out the back to phone the bank; I guess shed never seen a rich aborigine before. The blonds looked up, glanced through the window at my car, and the man asked, Are you headed north? He spoke English far better than any Australian Id ever heard, with a very slight hint of an accent; Bavarian, if Im any judge.

Yeah. You on holiday?

Yes, the woman replied. Monkey Mia, to see the dolphins. Have you been there?

No. I speak a few dozen words of Delphic, about as much as any human knows, but Id never had a chance to use it; the dolphins are too busy smiling for tourists to have any time for linguists. I guess it pays better, and they need the money: suing the whaling industry must be costing them a fortune.

Youre notfrom around here? asked the man. He only hesitated for an instant, but Im sure he was about to say a native.

No, I replied. My mother was from Sydney, but I was born in Vancouver, and Ive lived most of my life in the US. Have you been here before?

No.

Look out for the grids across the road. Some of the local farmers arent fond of city people at the moment. That was about as diplomatic as English can get. The stock market still hadnt recovered from the impact of Lagva technology, and the badly burnt Australian banks were foreclosing on their loans and repossessing farms. The gridsostensibly for keeping sheep in, not accountants outand shotguns were among the milder measures being employed: some farmers preferred AK-47s, and one had been caught importing a 130mm Katyusha in a crate of farm machinery. A tourist who asked intelligent questions was recently mistaken for a plainclothes banker, and shot; fortunately, this sort of thing didnt happen often.

The counterhand returned, her expression sour and skeptical. Dr. van Elven?

Yes? I replied, automatically. She handed my card back, rather reluctantly, and I glanced at my watch; twenty-seven hours in Australia, and I already hated the place. I turned to the tourists, and smiled. Enjoy your holiday, I said, before returning to my car.

Sergei was waiting at the campsite, incongruously attired in a dusty Akubra hat, wraparound shades, and khaki fatigues with more pockets than a troop of kangaroos. With him was a very tall, very thin man who resembled two large snakes looking for a caduceus, who Sergei introduced as Richard Barnes. Id assumed he was Australian, but his accent was Houstonian with a twist of something vaguely familiar. Okay, I said, as we clambered into the air-conditioned cool of the hired RV. Youve dragged us all halfway around the world to one of the most forsaken spots on Earth at the worst possible time of year. So whats the story?

Barnes blinked. Youre from the mainland too?

Yeah. Washington. This is my first time south of the equator; I was tromping through snow three days ago. Im waiting, Sergei.

He smiled. Im sorry, Sara; if itd been up to me, I wouldve arranged for a private flight and a complete dossier, all this skulking around is a waste of time but I wanted you on the team

You havent told me anything yet.

Weve found a spaceship in the rocks, he said. Not a Lagva ship, either. Our geologistKylie Chen, youll meet her at the sitethinks its been buried there for thirty thousand years, minimum.

Sergei has been a spymaster for both the KGB and the CIA, in that order, and breaking things to people gently is not among his gifts. Not Lagva? I repeated, stupidly.

No.

A Gahlawat slave race?

I doubt it; theyre not wearing neckties.

Theyre intact?

Very nearly soand sos the ship. It was found in a cavean almost perfect sphere. Barnes sniffed. Okay, an oblate spheroid. A climber kicked through one of the walls by accident, and found the ship trapped inside, hardly a scratch on it. If I were a science fiction fan, Id say that meant A force field bubble, I murmured, at the same moment, and whistled. Barnes began muttering in a creole of English and physics, but I ignored him: this was the biggest breakthrough since the Lagva started lending us their technical journals.

The Lagva have faster-than-light travel, artificial gravity (the two go together like tornadoes and trailer parks) and pocket antimatter power plants, but this was something they didnt even have a word for. Jesus. The climbers didnt open it, did they?

No. It has windows.

Youre kidding.

No. I glanced at Barnes, who nodded. How big is this thing?

Tiny, replied Sergei, before Barnes could answer. Maybe twice the size of a Lagva singleship, not much bigger than an old Apollo Command-Supply Module. And the aliens are nearly three meters tall.

What happened to the guy who found it? asked Barnes.

Girls, corrected Sergei. A couple of Phys Ed majors from Perth. They just won an all-expenses-paid vacation on the moon.

In space, I muttered, no one can hear you squeal. Why is this such a secret anyway?

Sergei shook his head. The next big breakthrough in physics? Look at the trade war the last one caused; you couldnt walk down Wall Street without a stockbroker landing on you.

This isnt tribal land, is it? asked Barnes.

No, I replied. Its a National Park. No aborigine will go near the place.

Sacred?

No; just the opposite. Unlucky, tabu, bad medicine, cursedVerboten. I dont know the language well enough.

Youre an aborigine, Barnes pointed out.

Im three-sixteenths Koori. My ancestors came from Sydney; I doubt they ever traveled this far west. This is Yamidji land.

He nodded. Do you believe in sacred sites?

Hell, no, I replied, smiling politely. I always thought the Alamo would be a great place for a Taco Bell.

Barnes flushed beneath his sunburn for a moment, and then looked out the window, pretending to be interested in the scenery. I suppose it wasnt any more boring than Texas, at that. Or any more holy, or less Hellish.

There was a tiny Japanese 4WD and an even smaller Chinese woman waiting by the gorge. Sergei, who knows everyone who knows anything, introduced us: Kylie Chen, Sara van Elven. I shook her hand, admiring the calluses. Geologist, or paleontologist, or both. She had the almond-shaped eyes and serene smile of a statue of Buddha, the delicate beauty that Asian women seem to keep until they mysteriously fossilize overnight, and muscles like a Tang bronze horse. A moment later, she showed us the way to the site, and I realized where the muscles had come from.

Kalbarri Gorge isnt as deep or wide as the Mariner Valley, or even the Grand Canyon, but its just as beautifuluntil you have to rappel halfway down a cliff face at the height of an Australian summer. No, I said. No, youre kidding.

Youre scared of heights? Kylie asked.

Not usually, I assured her. Only when Im hanging from a rope with a twenty-meter drop between my ass and a lot of sharp rocks. I thought there was supposed to be a river down there.