Worried about the captain, they'd moved fast to deal with the rest—only to find that they didn't have to. The plants were deserting their hosts as fast as they could. The three in the lounge were lying on the floor. Vezzarn wasn't quick enough for Goth. She 'ported the lock out of the door of the room Captain Pausert was in.
And she personally burned the mother-plant parasite. The Leewit had to stop her from doing so the minute she saw it. "Let it get out completely. You don't want it to die halfway. Then it could go bad in him and cause all sorts of problems."
Goth took a deep breath. "I can wait," she said, between clenched teeth. "But I'm going to fry it."
And she did, as a startled Pausert looked on, his eyes wide, but smiling.
"You know," he said, "I'd expect my future wife to take better care of the carpets."
And then he couldn't say anything more because she was hugging him.
"The addiction effect was on those the mother-plant kept under superficial control. Some of those goons of hers, for example."
"So you don't find you prefer it to me?" said Goth, still holding onto him.
"Great Patham, no!" Pausert shuddered. "Now, unless I am very much mistaken, we'd be very wise to get out of here. Let's get everyone strapped in and try for one of my better launches!"
He looked at the mound. At the array of protruding spaceguns. "It's going to be . . . interesting. I think we had better get airborne and go Sheewash or we might be toast."
"Got to get these collars off first," said the Leewit. "It's bothering me."
Goth grimaced. "Okay. I'm just really tired."
"Whoa," said the captain. "Is that what I think it is? Explosive collar?"
Goth nodded.
"I've got an idea. I can shield-cocoon you to fit your body, I think. And I just feel it would be a good idea."
"Clumping well just take the thing off me," said the Leewit, suddenly peevish. "I'm not too happy with that shield cocoon."
"Captain knows what he's about," said Goth. "Let him do me first, then you. We'll do it down in the hold in case it does blow."
So they did. And as the collar was 'ported . . . it exploded. But Goth was unharmed inside the cocoon.
The Leewit made no further objection. Shortly thereafter, she was free of her own collar.
"Captain," called Vezzarn over the intercom. "There's a whole bunch of Megair Cannibals coming our way. I think they're looking for the ship."
"Must have figured out something was wrong," said Goth. "It looks like theirs, but . . ."
"But we are getting out of here."
They ran back to the control room. "Strap in, and ready for Sheewash," said the captain.
"We'll do it," said the Leewit firmly to Goth. "You're dead tired. I've hardly done anything."
" 'Kay," said Goth with a sigh. "This time, Leewit. I am pretty tired. Tell you what. I'll try Sedmon's toy—that subradio communicator of his."
She strapped down in the observation lounge, as the captain pushed the thrust lever right down—and one of the laterals on full. That was clever, Goth thought. Straight up was where gunners would predict. Now if he could stop the side blast from crashing them into the swamp . . .
She was looking at the Megair mound when they began firing, and saw the effects of her teleportation.
The energy—intended to reach out to the stratosphere—didn't leave the mound. The results were pretty spectacular.
The Leewit whooped as the
Venture
suddenly began to Sheewash toward the heavens.
"What are you yelling about?" asked her father, from the miniature subradio communicator.
"We got Captain Pausert back and we dealt with the plant, and we are out of here!"
"Wonderful!" There was no mistaking his relief. "Those Phantom ships are just about solid around Megair 4. We haven't been able to get through."
"Didn't give us any trouble coming in. They treated us like we were one of them. What are you doing on the subradio, Threbus? Are you with Sedmon?"
"We borrowed his toy. It was a bit dangerous for him to play with. Your mother wants to speak to you, too. What about the addiction part?"
"Patham's hells! We're being attacked! We're still inside the gravity well and about six of those Phantoms have tried to take us down. They've committed suicide! They're trying to ram us!"
The captain's take-offs had always been a weakness of his. But his evasive flying in the upper atmosphere was stunning. They dived towards the clouds again.
"Got away," she reassured an anxious parent. "But we're going to have to go down, I think."
Pausert dived for the swamp below and then skimmed zigzagging just above treetop level. He'd seen the explosion at the Megair Cannibal base—but they still had ships and maybe they were tracking the vessel. The
Venture
wasn't built for this, but he was compensating for a lack of exterior vanes with laterals and luck. And lots of fuel! He spotted the small outcrop and set the
Venture
down. So far there was no sign of pursuit—a far cry from their first visit to this wet world.
They sat, electronics powered down, Goth using what little energy she had left to cloak the ship, the Leewit and Ta'zara ready on the nova guns. Nothing happened. Instruments picked up a high-flying craft heading in the direction they'd come from. After twenty minutes it was becoming obvious that nothing was going to happen except that Goth might need to eat all the food in the robo-butler's store.
"So," said the captain, "what now? We're safe, but stuck. And while I like the company, I can't say that this is my idea of a perfect place to spend the rest of my life."
Looking out of the viewscreen, Goth had to agree with him. Megair 4's rain came down gently. All around lay the typical Megair swamp. Miles and miles of channels, soft looking lobular trees, and more channels, trees and drifting rain, with a greenish cast to the light. They were lucky to have found a hard surface to land on. She said as much.
Pausert grinned. "Wrong. When we were diving in I hit the deep radar and got a surface scan of the local area." He pointed at the screen. "See. There are the hard spots. Not many of them. This was about the smallest, so I hoped it was least likely to be used by the Megair Cannibals. The others are in that arc over there. See—that one was their base."
"You're quick, Captain," said Goth.
"It's still like the Cannibal base one . . . a piece of rock in the middle of a swamp," said the Leewit grumpily. "It's even got a mound on the other end. So why couldn't we get out this time, and what are we going to do? Egger?" She pulled a face.
Not done here yet!
said the little vatch.
Still got problems to solve.
A suspicion blossomed in Goth's mind. "Is this anything to do with you?"
Could be. But you can't Egger out until you solve it. Stopped that!
The little whirling piece of blackness abruptly vanished.
"She's getting too big for her boots," said the Leewit.
"And the worst of it is that she learned a lot of it from you," said Goth. "So she's been interfering. Big vatches like watching us solve problems, and I guess she's growing up. So what do you think she's talking about? And do you think she's really stopped the Egger Route?"
"Likely," said the Leewit. "She understands how we do it. We don't. And I suppose the easy answer is to figure out what problems she's talking about and trick her too. Not sure what she means, though."
"The Megair Cannibals, maybe? If they can't get off world to hunt, they'll eat each other, and eventually die. I suppose."
"Or the Phantom ships," said Pausert. "Where do you think they all come from? And why did they let us in?"
"Well, the first time they weren't too keen. Taken by surprise, maybe? They seem to learn, but slowly." Goth had been pacing disconsolately around the control room as she said this, taking in the changes that that Marshi and her lot had made to her beloved
Venture.
On a high rack with several manuals, webbed in, was something that had no place here.
The strange box. The thing that Marshi had sought so desperately, but had thought to be a map. Without thinking about her last experiences, merely tidying her environment, Goth took it down.
And like the last time, she dropped it. Pausert picked it up for her.
He seemed to hold it without any distress. He held it out to her. The moment her fingers touched it, she pulled them away. It wasn't right to feel that much hate and fear. "Leewit?"
"Yeah?"
"Take that box, please. Tell me if you feel anything?"
Her sister did. Held it. Looked at it. Shrugged. "Nope."
"And you didn't feel anything either, Captain. Vezzarn, let's try you."
The old spacer held the box, and examined it. "Good workmanship. It's got a tiny hole here underneath, but I can't say that I see anything else special about it, missy."
He put it down and took a tiny electronic probe from his pocket. Explored the little hole with it . . . there was a click. The box began to unfold as they watched. Very soon it was a sheet of metal and, looking carefully, they could see circuitry traced within it.
"Well, that's one little mystery solved, but it doesn't help at all," said Goth, rather crossly. "You can't feel anything coming out of it, can you?"
The little old spacer was running one of his lock-picking tools over it. "There is some energy there," he said. "Low level. It's probably on standby."
Goth sighed again. "That's not really what I mean. It's the feelings. The images."
In her mind the Toll teaching pattern clicked in, at last recognizing the manifestations. In her mind Toll's cool voice said: "It's a rare klatha skill, Goth. Quite disturbing until you learn how to channel and control it. Powerful emotions and images leave an imprint of sorts on objects. It's the same phenomenon that gives rise to the images some people can perceive as 'ghosts'—you are just far more sensitive than most."
"Well, I wish it would go away," muttered Goth.
The Toll-pattern was cool, sympathetic, and firm. "Klatha powers don't, as you know, Goth. You can either channel them or they will destroy you. This is probably just the start of it, Daughter. You must use this pattern to put a buffer between you and it. To switch it off and allow just enough through."
She traced the thin cool intricate pattern in her mind, building the buffer. Then she undid it and did it again. Then Goth reached out and touched the Illtraming map . . .
It had been a navigational tool, a part of the flagship once. A navigational computer. And the device that identified the ship. That prevented friendly fire when the vast armada of ships—most of them robot ships, drones, had set out finally to cleanse the galaxy of the mother-plant.
Even through the buffering, Goth felt their hatred and fear of the mother-plant. It was almost overwhelming in its intensity. The mother-plant enslaved and used and killed the people. It infested them until their hair fell out and they died, consumed by the haploids' reproduction. Using the ability to surf the dimensional edges, the armada had harried the mother-plant. Many of the people had died, enslaved, fighting for the mother-plant. They hated it worse for that. But at last they'd burned the mothertrees that covered continents on world after world. Bombed and destroyed the nurseries. And then taken the battle to the homeworld. The place where the Illtraming and the mother-plant had evolved. A beautiful world of water and gentle rains.
They had set out to destroy it. The robot ships had launched wave after wave of missiles. The mother-plant's slaves had destroyed what attackers and missiles they could. But the end was certain.
And then the mother-plant had retaliated with a weapon that had shattered countless robot ships—and the flagship. It had torn pieces out of the ships in ever widening discontinuities. The flagship had crashed. The people on it had died. But the mother-plant was dead also. And the blessed-place was safe. The Illtraming's idea of the perfect world. The place where the mother-plant died.
It wasn't Goth's idea of a perfect place. But the Illtraming surely loved Megair 4. The little hairy six-legged web-foots didn't mind being wet. They were amphibians, anyway.
Goth stood up. She was unaware that she'd even sat down.
"Lots of klatha," said the Leewit quietly from the chair where she was sitting. "That was scary, Goth. But the Toll pattern said I mustn't mess with you while you were under."
"How long . . ."
" 'Bout two days now. Scary."
"Where is the captain?"
"He and Ta'zara went to get some more of the local plant to feed the prisoners. I was all for turning them out into the swamp," said the Leewit cheerfully. "Vezzarn is keeping watch in the turret. We've camouflaged the ship as much possible. And we have found out that this place is just like the other one. The place where the Cannibals are living. That mound is full of a whole lot of tunnels too. Only they're empty." She cocked her head. "Sounds like them coming back now."
It was. The captain hugged her fiercely. "There was a sort of glow around you," he said. "The Leewit said not to touch."
"She was right. I found out how come we got in. And what we've done wrong." She pointed at the sheet of alien circuitry. "That identified us as a friend. It's an IFF beacon for the Illtraming fleet. Those are robot drones out there. They do what ordinary ships can't."
"So . . . why did they attack us then?"
"Because we brought back the IFF for the flagship . . . and landed at the base of the murderers."
Goth sighed. "I was getting it off the stones of the Megair base. It . . . was just too intense. And I didn't know how to make sense of it. The Megair Cannibals—wherever they came from, were invited to this place. The Illtraming thought that as they were animals, they must be allies. Friends. Good things. Illtraming only eat plants . . . the only predator they ever knew was the mother-plant. You have to understand the Illtraming are basically not fighters at all. They only fought because the mother-plant had them in terror. They knew, sooner or later, it would come to their safe-haven. If it couldn't enslave them, it would destroy them. So they took preemptive steps. In the end their fleet mostly got destroyed, but so did the mother-plant. Except it seems it didn't quite."