The other upper arm was stretched out into space and another XC dangled at the end, holding on with both lower hands. The air leaving the lifeboat was down to a light breeze, but Joel could still see that if the on-board XC let go, both would probably be pushed out into space by the remaining pressure.
How had they got there? Joel could picture the scenario. Say both were close to the hull when the drive field came on. The gravitational eddies would have caused chaos in the bay, but right close to the hull it would have been an area of almost calm. Maybe the gravitational forces had plucked at them, but not much, and the smaller one had been able to get a grip on the lifeboat itself.
All sorts of options ran through Joel’s mind. Shut the outer hatch; that would deal with the second XC. Shut both hatches, repressurize the airlock and blow it again; that would deal with the first. But the markings on the suit of the dangling XC looked familiar, and the XCs had been trying to set them free, so he slowly walked forward, took hold of the inboard XC’s arm and helped haul the pair of them into the cabin. Then he shut both hatches and set the cabin to repressurize.
The first thing he saw as he turned round was Boon Round about to attack. He recognized the flexing of the hind limbs, the poise to pounce, and he quickly positioned himself between the Rustie and the XCs.
‘No,’ he said. And there he stood for another minute, angling himself between Boon Round and the XCs every time the Rustie tried to get past him, until the display inside his helmet told him that the cabin was up to pressure again. He reached up and touched his helmet release.
‘They’re XCs!’ Boon Round shouted.
‘I know.’ Joel half turned so that he could look at Boon Round and the XCs at the same time. They were looking at him and at each other and he suspected they were communicating furiously, but as XCs didn’t talk through moving mouths it looked as if they were just standing there.
‘They killed our siblings! Human and First Breed!’
‘They were going to let us go, before you went mad,’ Joel said. He put his helmet on a seat.
‘I saw the bodies of my slain pridemates! What was I to do?’
Joel bit his lip and didn’t answer, because there was no answer. If he was ever in the position of watching his entire family massacred then he might be in a position to judge Boon Round’s actions.
He also had to admit he didn’t actually
know
what the XCs’ intentions had been; and even if they had been friendly, he doubted the mood would have lasted following Boon Round’s outburst and the lifeboat’s abrupt departure with two accidental passengers. Going back to drop them off wasn’t an option.
But if he was to keep them, where to put them? The lifeboat’s main cabin was just like the cabin of a normal passenger shuttle – rows of seats facing forwards, with an aisle in between and the flight deck at the end. Aft was the power compartment, the galley, the washroom . . . nowhere really secure to put the XCs. Even if they could be locked up somewhere, he didn’t want them out of his sight.
So he crossed quickly to a wall locker, took an object from it and aimed it at the aliens.
‘We’ll be at the step-through generator in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘When we get there, we’ll chuck ’em into space and let their people pick them up. Meanwhile we keep them covered with this at all times.’
‘That is an optical fibre calibrator,’ Boon Round objected.
‘I know. They don’t,’ Joel said. He hefted the long, thin and suitably gun-like tool with what he hoped was armed confidence. Maybe the XCs were taken in, maybe not, but either way they didn’t move. ‘Boon Round, make yourself useful. Get up to the flight deck, confirm we’re broadcasting the right signal to let the generator know we’re friendly. And set the lifeboat to come to dead stop half a mile off.’
He was slightly surprised when Boon Round meekly obeyed.
Joel, you’re turning into a leader
, he thought, and grinned. Who cared? They were alive and going home, and that was what mattered.
‘
Martial Mother
.’ Stormer’s voice crackled with anger in Barabadar’s headphones as the Marshal of Space’s suit thrusters carried her back to the asteroid, a sheer rock face that filled her vision dead ahead. Her suit’s computer was aiming her at the dark circle of the ship cavern.
‘Tell me the worst,’ she said.
‘
Twelve dead, Martial Mother. Their armour ruptured
when they were smashed against the sides of the cave. And
two missing
.’
Twelve dead
. Battle hormones doubled their rush into her bloodstream and she raged silently as she flew through space. She and Stormer and the others who still lived had survived only by chance. When that . . . that
thing
had taken off, everyone in the cave had been sucked out with it, as if caught in some kind of slipstream. Except that there could have been no slipstream in a vacuum – and yet, Barabadar herself had been flung far enough for her suit to take a couple of minutes to slow her down and reorient her to thrust back to the rock. Did it play with gravity? Had there been some kind of gravitational backlash as it fired its engines?
She put the speculation to the back of her mind as Stormer continued.
‘
Martial Mother . . . I have to report that one of the
missing is your Third Son. He is not among the dead that
we have found but he isn’t responding to calls.
’
Third Son!
Barabadar felt the sudden horror of loss. Third Son gone, and no body to take a full Sharing from . . .
She gave no hint of it in her response, carefully vetting the harmonics of her speech for any trace of emotion. ‘I see,’ she said.
‘
My Learned Mother Oomoing is also missing
,’ Stormer said, and Barabadar cursed. Third Son was one thing; he would be mourned properly, she had old Sharings of his, and sons Four through Twelve would welcome the promotion. But the loss of Oomoing would annoy the Scientific Institute, which would annoy the government, which would all come crashing down on
her
.
Well, she would just have to take it. The fact was, infuriating and costly though the business had been and even though her plan to return the Not Us to their own people hadn’t unfolded quite as she would have liked, the net effect was the same. She still had a load of dead outlanders on her hands but the live ones were on their way back.
A new voice spoke inside her helmet.
‘
My Mother, this is First Son
.’
‘Yes, First Son?’ Her oldest offspring was on watch onboard her ship.
‘
We’ve been tracking the course of the outlander ship and
using the probes in Firegod orbit to project ahead of its
course. Now we know where they’re going and where to
look . . . My Mother, the probes have detected something
.’
‘Another ship?’ Had the outlanders come in force already? Was it too late?
‘
Too small
,’ First Son said, to her relief, ‘
and it’s
just sitting there in space. It’s small and dark and using
some kind of stealth, but once we knew roughly where to
look . . .
’
‘I know.’ Hidden in space, just like the outlander base itself . . . but that didn’t mean it belonged to them. It could still be some covert probe from another Homeworld nation.
‘
One of our probes is in a position to do a flyby
,’ First Son said. ‘
I’ve already sent the orders
.’
Of course, if it
was
outlander . . .
‘Tell it to abort,’ Barabadar ordered.
‘
Very well . . . My Mother, the object is signalling the
probe
.’
‘What’s it saying?’
‘
Unknown, but . . . Oh
.’ First Son sounded almost despondent.
‘What?’ Barabadar said, not sure if she really wanted to know.
‘
The object has exploded, My Mother
.’
Step-through generator has self-destructed following non-receipt of correct codes
, said the display on the pilot’s desk.
Joel stared at it in horror.
‘Oh, crap,’ he said.
Five
Day Ten: 12 June 2153
’Now what?’ said Boon Round. Joel swung round to the Rustie, who was still holding his captive XCs at calibrator-point, but for once Boon Round’s query sounded genuine, not sarcastic.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. He turned back to look at the displays on the pilot’s desk. The lifeboat was still heading away from SkySpy – no problem there. It was still heading towards the Shield, where at least one XC ship was in orbit. The lifeboat could outmanoeuvre any XC ship built and go anywhere in this system, but it wasn’t a full-size starship and sooner or later he would have to start paying attention to its limited resources.
Boon Round was having similar thoughts. ‘These two are a drain on our reserves and they are part of the armed forces that slaughtered my pride. We should execute them.’
‘Sure,’ Joel said without looking round. ‘Set your calibrator to kill.’
‘I meant—’
‘Boon Round, they can’t eat our food, we can recycle the water indefinitely, and this boat was built for the full SkySpy complement, so two of us and two of them aren’t going to drain anything.’ Food: a good point. Joel fantasized briefly about force-feeding the captives with chocolate bars.
‘We throw them out of the airlock and let their friends pick them up.’
‘If you think you can persuade them to get into the airlock, go ahead.’ Good will only went so far: Joel knew that his intentions were benign, but would the XCs guess? And would they care if they did? Or, if pushed too far, would these two just risk the calibrator and jump him and Boon Round? Better, he thought, to keep them where he could see them and not provoke them at all.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Keep them at gunpoint and let me think.’
He thought. As far as the XCs on SkySpy knew, two of their kind had been kidnapped, and Joel had an idea of what happened when XCs felt vengeful. Chances were that the XCs would come after them. They needed to lie low until the rescue ship – and there
would
be a rescue ship – got here.
Somewhere.
Joel called up the planetary display and immediately discounted the nearest planetary body, the Shield, as an option. The Shield had XCs orbiting it, so no lying low there. The lifeboat could outfly an XC ship but not necessarily outgun it.
So, next stop? He called up a display of the solar system. The optimum course for the lifeboat would be to continue its curved trajectory, on around the Shield and then downhill into the system towards the sun and . . .
He grinned. Then he laughed, a dirty, unpleasant chuckle. Oh yes. Oh yes! It was too perfect.
A century ago, the first mission to this system from the Roving had secretly observed the XCs’ first go at interplanetary travel. The journey had been made to wipe out the non-technological inhabitants of the system’s third world. The XCs now referred to the place as the Dead World, a name which humans and First Breed had picked up, and it was the one place that everyone knew XCs avoided like the plague.
The Dead World and the Shield were almost at perigee, as close together as their respective orbits ever brought them. With only a little nudging, the lifeboat could cruise there in a couple of days. The XCs would take much longer, if they followed at all. And the lifeboat could go into orbit and await the rescue ship.
Joel entered the necessary commands and turned back to give Boon Round the good news. He wondered if the Rustie would see the irony of sheltering there. Even Boon Round might find it amusing.
Still in her space armour but with her helmet under one arm, Barabadar entered her cabin. She leaned against the bulkhead while the facts whirled through her mind.
The outlanders were heading for the Dead World. Unless they deviated from their course, and making huge yet apparently reasonable assumptions about how quickly they could decelerate, they would enter orbit around the Dead World in a day and a half.
The Dead World! Barabadar could hardly believe how her bad luck had been compounded. What did they know about the Dead World? Did they know of the inhabitants’ fate or was it all just a ghastly coincidence?
Every instinct shrieked at her to go after the creatures, even though the journey would take one of her ships almost a twelve-day and a lot of fuel. The outlanders had caused the loss of Third Son and honour demanded vengeance, and on general principle to have an outlander ship flitting at will around the solar system,
her
solar system, was untenable. But she still believed the outlanders would be sending reinforcements, and the chances were they would appear in this vicinity of space. She owed it to Homeworld to be here to meet and confront them.
With a heavy heart, Barabadar set her helmet down and activated the comms console.
‘This channel to be assigned exclusively to me until informed otherwise,’ she said, and keyed in her personal encryption code.
‘Compose signal to commanding officer,
Chariot of
Rightful Justice
, stationed Habitat One,’ she said. Compared to this far-flung location, Habitat 1 was almost in the Dead World’s hunting perimeter, and
Chariot of Rightful Justice
could make the trip in half a twelve-day. ‘Proceed at once to the Dead World . . .’
It took only a couple of minutes to deliver the gist of
Chariot of Rightful Justice
’s orders. Then Barabadar paused. She so desperately did not want to give the next order, but she couldn’t send the ship in undefended and unforewarned against an unknown and potentially lethal danger.
‘Upon approaching the Dead World,’ she said, ‘essential repeat essential that you enter along the following orbital corridor . . .’
Another minute and the orders had been finished, reviewed and delivered. There was a five-hour time lag between here and Habitat 1, but
Chariot of Rightful
Justice
’s commanding officer was a niece and Barabadar had no doubt the ship would be under way in six hours, six and a half maximum. So, that was done.
It wouldn’t get to the Dead World in time to intercept the outlander ship, but it might get there in time to pick up the pieces.
Now for the hard part. ‘Compose signal to President Mother of the Scientific Institute,’ she said. She made her tone as impersonal as she could. ‘Pending verification of facts, regret to inform you of possible loss of My Learned Sister Oomoing . . .’
Oomoing nibbled carefully at the extraterrestrial food. It was dry and crumbly and tasted vile. She made an effort and swallowed it. She would see if the mouthful stayed down and if it did her any good; her hopes weren’t high, but she was starving. If it stayed then, perhaps, she would eat the rest.
She took a swig from the waterpack. That much, at least, the two races had in common.
Long, the two-legged extraterrestrial, had walked back down the cabin to the cockpit.
I was right!
It had been so difficult to tell in microgravity, but Oomoing had been sure, and now she knew. Long walked on two legs, Short on four. She was already forming yet another tentative hypothesis. Short had resumed his vigil over the two captives.
‘Learned Mother.’ Fleet murmured so quietly that Oomoing had to strain to hear him.
‘You can speak up,’ she said. ‘I doubt they understand us.’ Short looked up when Fleet started talking, but that was probably just because of the noises he was making. Short could tell Fleet was saying something, but neither of the extraterrestrials had made any attempt to communicate, so Oomoing doubted that they could.
‘I think I can jump him,’ Fleet said, still quiet.
‘He thinks he can jump you,’ Oomoing said to Short.
‘Learned Mother!’ Fleet protested, but Short didn’t twitch. The gun he was holding – if it was a gun – was still aimed somewhere vaguely between them, in their average direction.
‘He can’t understand you,’ Oomoing said, ‘and you’re not to jump either of them.’
‘It won’t be difficult.’ Fleet flexed his legs experimentally, took a breath. ‘The gravity’s a little lighter and I’d guess there’s more CO
2
than we’re used to, but that won’t be a problem. Learned Mother, these two are probably technicians, engineers, not warriors. They won’t have met one of the Kin in battle rage before. I can do it, Learned Mother.’
It was good to know Fleet was capable of deducing something; Oomoing had already drawn the same conclusions about the battle fitness of their captors.
‘I don’t doubt you’re right, Loyal Son,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, Long does seem to be quite good at piloting this ship. Could you work out the controls?’
Fleet glanced down the cabin into the cockpit. Long was laid out in one of the couches there.
Those couches had attracted Oomoing’s interest and they gave weight to her latest hypothesis. They seemed to be designed to accommodate either Long or Short, which made sense; at the touch of a button they reconfigured their shape. Long lay down on his back; Short lay prone on his front. It seemed unnecessarily complicated . . . for two species from the same planet. Oomoing was more and more convinced she was correct, and it was a conclusion that she knew Barabadar and very probably Fleet would not want to hear. There wasn’t just intelligent life out there; there were at least two forms of it, and who knew how many more besides?
‘The ship seems automated,’ Fleet said, bringing her back to the present.
‘Long set the controls and now has nothing further to do. Could you override them?’
‘I . . .’
‘Do you know he hasn’t set scuttling charges to destroy us unless whoever operates the controls uses a password? Can you work out their language and their writing so that you can interface with their flight computer?’
‘I . . .’ Fleet said again.
‘Loyal Son, I commend your devotion, but these two are keeping us alive. We need to keep them alive in turn.’
Fleet subsided, doubtless thinking dark thoughts. It took a minute for him to speak again. ‘Learned Mother, that so-called food was revolting and probably did us no good at all. If it turns out to be useless to us then we may have to go to sleep to stay alive.’
‘That’s a risk we must take,’ Oomoing said. ‘You will
not
attack either of these two without my permission. Forgive me for making it an order.’
A concerted attack on an innocent planet; the calculated wiping out of an unarmed, Stone Age race. Like everyone else on SkySpy, Joel had seen the recordings of the XCs’ attack on their neighbouring world. He had had the routine briefing for all SkySpy personnel. But no-one giving the briefing had ever thought that the briefee might one day end up in charge of two of the creatures. Now finding out as much as possible about the XCs seemed like a good idea, and as he bathed in the luxury of the lifeboat’s powder shower he had the infofeed going in the background.
He very quickly found that no two ‘experts’ could agree on the available data and there were still huge gaps in the Commonwealth’s understanding. Tantalizing scraps of information swam around him. For instance, what the hell were
culling games
? The phrase was often referred to, but since they didn’t seem to be televised, no-one from the Commonwealth knew what actually happened at them. But the phrase itself was telling. It was only the survivors of the games that rose to genderless sentience and then, at the equivalent to puberty, became an adult of a fixed gender, complete with the ability to Share. With that kind of start to life, perhaps the race could be excused for being naturally . . . uppity.
And when you had the teeth and hunting instincts of a shark, and the claws of a bear and the reflexes of a cat, and no fear of death because your soul would live on in the memories of your loved ones who would eat you after you died . . . it was a wonder the race had lasted.
But maybe not. On the plus side, their conflicts were conducted in a highly ritual and regulated manner. XC nations would never go to war because one of them had invaded the XC equivalent of Poland, because that kind of thinking was alien to the XCs. It was difficult for an XC nation to run short of resources and need more land, when half the population was asleep for up to half a year at any given time. And those friendly culling games seemed to take care of excess population growth.
On the minus side, when they did go to war it was at the drop of a hat, ritual or no, and a large part of the ritual was to go at the other side hammer and tongs until both sides were so depleted they couldn’t go on. They didn’t target civilians, but that was only because there was no such thing. Warfare for the XCs had been such a constant that they didn’t even give their wars names for future reference. There were theories, based on what little could be made of their dating system, that their outbreaks of war and peace and war and peace had been cyclical, somehow predictable; but they were only theories and mentioned in a footnote. Joel was after hard facts.
Another plus-fact was that XCs now spoke of the Era of War and there was no denying
it was in the past
. XCs hadn’t had a decent, all-out scrap on a global scale for nearly a century. The XC leaders did seem to realize what their technology could do, and XC politics was a constant struggle between reason, the awareness of possible self-extinction, and their instinctive desire to eat their opponents.
All of which was overshadowed by the whopping great minus-fact of what they had done to the third world of their solar system.
But that had been nearly a century ago; certainly nothing to do with the lifeboat’s two unwanted passengers. But at the back of his mind was the permanent knowledge of what their parents, or maybe grandparents, had done, and of what these two could easily do themselves if they so chose.
His stream of thought was interrupted by a beeping. It came from his aide. He frowned and looked at the display. The frown faded into a grin.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course.’ It was past midnight, SkySpy time. It was 13 June 2153.