Free The Fifth Civilization: A Novel by Peter Bingham-Pankratz Page A

more danger
there was that the call would be traced.
    “You’re going to have to be quick, Masao. The police are
probably plastering my face all over the security network. And I don’t want to
even know what the Kotarans are doing.”
    A sigh on the other end. “I’m going as fast as I fucking
can. I’ll meet you at Grand Central in fifteen.”   Masao abruptly hung up. Roan pocketed
the com and scooped off his cap, running his hands through his hair. Traffic grew
heavier as they approached the spaceport, but he was glad they were in a hovercar
and could avoid the crowded lanes above the terminals. The sky swarmed with
orbital rockets and low-flying shuttles zigzagging about, a synchronized dance
to the heavens.
    “Is your friend coming?” David asked, interrupting the ship
spotting.
    “Yes, he is. We’ll just have to wait in the concourse.”
    David blinked and maneuvered the skimmer toward a parking
structure. They passed through a security booth, which scanned them. Roan held
his breath; it was yet another way for their skimmer to be logged and recorded.
The police were sure to be close behind.
    “You will need to look at what’s on that pad,” David said.
    “Huh? What pad?”
    “The one Aaron gave you.”   Then Roan remembered what was in his
pocket, the parting gift of a murdered friend. He muttered that he’d look at it
later. If something like that was worth two energy bolts to the back, it wasn’t
something that Roan wanted on his person. Part of him wished the Kotarans would
offer him ten million to give up the pad, making him both rich and rid of this
panspermia nonsense. But they’d killed Aaron for the information on it, and
Roan sure as hell wanted to know what was worth dying over.
    ***

 
    By the time the shuttlepod came to pluck him out of Tokyo
Bay, Grinek had vowed never to swim again. He was glad to get off the wet buoy,
but even as he curled his tail and sat down in one of the shuttle’s seats, he
could not escape the water’s effects.
    His body suit was thoroughly soaked and dripped like a leaky
pipe. Every time he moved his head he could hear an annoying sloshing sound in
his ears. And his grey skin had started to wrinkle from being his time in the
water, resulting in a most unappealing look. The soldiers attending to him
could do nothing but watch as he struggled to dry his fur, since they had
neglected to bring any towels on board the shuttle. Grinek ordered an officer
to strip and give him his tunic, and the officer promptly complied. As he wiped
himself down with the piece of fabric, Grinek made a note to order a demotion
for all on board.
    The operations ship came into view out the pod’s window. It
was not a typical Kotaran ship; in fact, its exterior was not Kotaran at all.
In order for their expedition to attract the least amount of suspicion, the
Ruling Council had provided Grinek with an old Earth colonial freighter
captured years earlier. Any Kotaran ship that arrived at Earth, even a
diplomatic one, was scrutinized to the utmost degree by the
authorities—but no one would bother checking an obsolete freighter
lingering above the planet. It was not the only Kotaran ship in the solar
system: the Hanyek , which could carry
the operations vessel in its hangar, was waiting out beyond the planet called
Neptune.
    Grinek treated the disguised vessel with nothing but
disdain. It was small, barely able to fit ten people. From the outside, the
ship looked boxy and was propelled by two tubular nacelles, having none of the
curves and flair that were satisfying to the eyes (Earthmen had no aesthetic
instincts).
    At least the interior had been modified. When Grinek stepped
out from the pod, he was pleased to be met with the familiar grey of his
homeworld.
    An officer named Sisal, the captain of both the Hanyek and the operations ship, stood at
attention in a doorway. It was with Sisal’s crew that Grinek was conducting this
mission. The man had not yet even reached forty and hid