Desolator: Book 2 (Stellar Conquest) (7 page)

“Ryss should not be tending plants!” Vusk snarled.

“Oh, I quite agree, young Vusk. But because those plants provide us with the only thing that passes for meat in this place, it must be done. Or perhaps you would like to donate your next ration to an orphan? I’m sure your…
herd
…would be happy to give you some of theirs.” Chirom used the word for a group of stupid game animals to describe the younger male’s running mates.

Vusk’s lips came off his teeth this time, and Chirom leaped to his feet in a flash, all four paws with naked claws extended as he roared, his ears flat and fur standing up. The yearsmane faced him for only a moment before backing down, covering his fangs and slinking off, his gang following resentfully.

Nearby Ryss flicked their tails and twitched their ears in amusement and, for the moment, applause. All knew Vusk was a troublemaker, and any challenge to an elder must not pass unanswered.

Yet I grow older,
Chirom thought,
and Vusk gains strength. One day he will overcome his fear and challenge me. Trissk is right. This star system is our best chance.

“Go,” he repeated to Trissk. “I will be along presently.” He watched as the younger Ryss bowed and left, and then Chirom went to speak to Elder Dorem, who supervised the hydroponics bays, to tell him the news of the extra energy ration.

Ever dour, Dorem merely grunted, but thankfully did not inquire further about their good fortune.

“I’m receiving an odd transmission from the eyeball on the comet,” Commander Johnstone reported. “Let me clean it up. Just a moment.”

Bored bridge crew, with nothing better to do than watch the slowly-improving data feeds from the sensor drone, turned their crash chairs to look at the CyberComm officer. All, that is, except Master Helmsman Okuda, who without his medusa cyberlink seemed determined to be split-second ready at all times, his hands hovering over his manual controls. Absen wondered how long before the man collapsed from fatigue. He told himself that after the drone went past and saw what it saw, he would order the man to his rack.

“Here it is, on that display there. It’s interesting…Meme standard code, mathematics, and a parallel file…sir, it’s very similar to our first contact protocol. The other file is a new language, but if it lines up with the Meme code, I should be able to get a rough translation pretty quick. Perhaps…an hour or so.”

“How long until the probe gets there?” Absen asked.

“One hour twenty-five, assuming no change,” Sensors reported.

“All right, Mister Johnstone, get on it.”

Forty-seven minutes later a paragraph of text appeared on the main display for all to read:

“That’s a mouthful,” Ford muttered from Weapons. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you punctuation doesn’t matter. Can’t you make it any clearer?”

Johnstone shook his head. “Not without more communications to digest.”

“Some of it is clear, I think,” mused Absen, “and some of it is not. They are addressing the aliens in this system – us and the Sekoi – and they say they are organic sentients – is there another kind? They are aboard the ‘desolator’ warship, which may be a name or function. But what does ‘is not sane’ mean?”

Johnstone replied, “Might ‘is not sane enemies of Meme’ mean it’s not sane to be the enemies of Meme? Maybe they mean resistance is futile? A statement of despair?”

“Or, ‘enemies of Meme as you are.’ That sounds like they want to be allies against the Meme,” Captain Mirza said hopefully.

“Let’s leave that part for now,” said Absen. “What about ‘to survive need help board ship to disable desolator free us’ and then the rest…it seems they are pleading for help in disabling this ‘desolator’ and offer knowledge in exchange.”

“Perhaps a ‘desolator’ is a weapon, a device of war. A self-destruct mechanism that will eventually kill them all? Or even a disease?”

Absen stroked his chin, sitting back in his auxiliary chair. “So it seems like at least someone aboard that ship is friendly, or wants us to think so. And the communication came via our own eyeball’s relay. Could there be some kind of civil conflict aboard? Even two races? One faction attacks us with a computer virus, their most effective weapon given the poor state of the ship. Another faction tries to make contact.”

Rick Johnstone listened with half his mind, the other half chewing on the problem. Something was niggling at his consciousness but the more he tried to grasp it the more it slipped away.
Relax, Rick, let it come.
He resolved to keep his mouth shut and continue listening. Maybe if he stopped trying too hard it would surface.

“It seems like everything hinges on what this desolator device is, and also, what about the ‘is not sane’ phrase,” Captain Mirza said. “Perhaps we should ask.”

Admiral Absen nodded. “I agree. Mister Johnstone, go ahead and send a reply. Transmit this group our first contact package too. If one faction already knows, we want to make sure they all do, until we figure out how to proceed. And shoot a summary of everything to Kullorg when you’re done.”

“Aye, sir. It will be a few minutes at least before they reply.”

“Yes, I’m starting to get the hang of this space warfare thing,” Absen said dryly, but Johnstone was already deep in his link and did not hear.

“Admiral Absen,” crackled the screen as Kullorg came on. “Meme code they send is old version, perhaps three hundred years or more. Is possible ship and crew are also so old, or from past. Time dilation may explain survival.”

“You mean the ship itself may have been wandering for more than three hundred years but experienced far less time if it moved relativistically.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have any ideas about what the phrase ‘is not sane’ means?”

“Many ideas, none better than other. Speak later.” Kullorg’s transmission cut off.

Absen ran his fingers down the edges of his unshaven jaw. “How many Marines does
Temasek
have on it right now?”

“Two standard companies of about two hundred each.”

“Who’s in command?”

“Bull – ah, Major Joseph ben Tauros.”

Absen grunted. “The man who took down the moon laser generator. Can’t fault his aggression, but I wonder how he’ll do in a less…straightforward situation. Now I wish I had…” He trailed off, realizing that the bridge was not the place to be musing aloud about EarthFleet’s covert operatives. …
Wish I had Spooky Nguyen or Ezekiel Denham,
he finished the thought.

A few minutes later Johnstone spoke up. “Here’s the reply, sir…not sure if it answers or raises more questions.” On the screen appeared the latest translated text:

“You weren’t kidding.” Absen took a deep breath, let it out. “Thoughts?”

“They say desolator is an insane device, and ask whether we have sane or insane devices,” Mirza remarked. “Could it be a device that causes or cures madness?”

Ford spoke up. “What about ‘also vessel’. Desolator is insane device also vessel? Could the vessel itself be the desolator device that is in some way insane?”

“Perhaps it is –”

“Conn: Sensors. Gentlemen, something is happening.” Tanaka pointed at the screens showing the data feeds from the drone they had launched. They fuzzed, then whited out, except for the gamma-neutron detector which showed the same growing blob of fusion activity in the middle.

“Did the thing destroy it?”

“No, sir. I’d say a wide spectrum blinding laser just overloaded almost everything.” Tanaka made adjustments to his console. “I’ll see what I can do, but I think we lost everything but the gamma-neutron.”

“Are we still getting something from the eyeball?”

“Yes, sir, those screens there.” The ones Johnstone indicated showed the big ship from a side angle as it slowly cruised by at long range. “It doesn’t seem to be reacting to the transmissions, though I have deliberately kept them minimum power. Maybe it viewed the drone as hostile, since it is coming right at it.”

“As long as we can see that it is still on course and speed…”

“Yes, sir,
Conquest
’s own sensors can tell us that. The probe was just to get a closer look. The bogey is decelerating for approach to New Jove orbit near Reta, if I had to guess.”

Admiral Absen paced a moment, looking at the holotank. “The tug
Booker
– do they have contact with their base?”

“I’ll check, sir.” A moment later Johnstone reported, “Yes, sir. They left all the cameras and sensors on and transmitting. I’m retrieving their encryption keys and integrating it into our displays…now. It doesn’t show much yet.”

Absen nodded. “But it will be interesting to see what it does when the ship approaches the ice moon.”

Ford grunted. “Just lost the drone. EM pulse hit it.”

“Well, I guess that tells us it doesn’t want us to look too closely.” Absen glanced around the bridge at the worn-out crew. “Captain Mirza, I am going to go catch a couple of hours rest. I suggest you rotate some of your people and yourself too. Wake me when the bogey gets to Reta.” Without waiting for an answer he left via the Captain’s hatch, searching through officer country until he found an empty stateroom in which to collapse.

Jill checked her GPS reading, then stopped at the crest of a low dune and stared at the shore of the great worldwide Afranan ocean. Sea grass and hardy bushes grew along the coast above the tide line, but no trees taller than a couple of meters. To the Hippos, it was cold here; for humans, it was quite comfortable.

Regulation skinsuit on, she carried a rucksack with some food and standard military gear, as well as her PW5. Anything bigger and she’d have had to check it out of the armory, obliterating the covert nature of this mission.

She’d told Dannie she needed to get out of the stacked-box warren of the human city, saying it had started to feel like a ghetto, and asked her to look after the kids. It wasn’t an unusual thing for demobilized female troops to feel restless after so much motherhood, nor to share childrearing duties – and there were always the communal crèches.

Human society here on Afrana had adjusted to the demands of war, had made do. That didn’t stop Jill from feeling guilty. She told herself it was just this one mission, and that after three years, she needed to stretch her legs. This explanation seemed inadequate, but at least it had the virtue of being true.

A curl of smoke caught her eye, whipping inland in the cool sea breeze, so she hiked her ruck up and trotted down the hill. Though she had long ago adjusted to the 1.4 gravities of the Hippo world, she still felt some kinks in her musculature, confirming her assessment that she had been getting lazy. It felt good to get out.

Rather than find her way through the brush, she approached along the beach, the better to recon her objective. Old habits died hard, to have as much information as early as possible, and not to get caught out. Soon she could see a man next to a small fire. Once she got closer, she saw two whole spitted glusters roasting over it.

“Good day, Jill,” Spooky called as he turned the huge lobster-like critters over in the heat. Eventually the pressure of escaping gasses would cause them to whistle and their shells to split, and not long after they would become edible. Taking a dose of bio-engineered gut bacteria along with them helped.

“G’day, Spooky.” She looked around. “We going in NOE or what?”

“NOK, you mean? Nap of the Koio, not Earth.” Koio was the Hippos’ word for their own world. “Why bother?” Spooky stuck two fingers in his mouth and let loose a piercing whistle.

Jill’s PW5 was in her hand and pointed at the disturbance in the water before she realized what it was: the top of Ezekiel Denham’s living ship, breaching the surface like a whale. As she put the gun away, the ship’s owner rose through an iris at the top, then ran along its surface to jump off, wade through the light surf and join them at the fire.

Ezekiel set down the steaming pot he had carried. “Seaweed soup,” he said by way of explanation, and unhooked three mugs, pouring it like tea. He handed a cup to each.

Jill sniffed at hers, then sipped, savoring the unusual flavor. With a whole new world full of alien foods and spices, she never expected to run out of novelty.
I’ll trust that it’s safe for humans…

She stared at Ezekiel, dressed in a jumpsuit of subdued yellow, Sekoi code for Meme Blend. In their language, they were even called “Yellows.” Long the masters of their society, they remained in charge despite throwing off the Empire. A democratic revolution it was most decidedly not, but she wasn’t about to concern herself with their governmental forms. It seemed no worse than historical India, with its castes, its Brahmins and its Dalits and everything in between.

“Why do you wear that?” she asked, not expecting to get an answer she liked. “Do you get off on lording it over the natives?”

Ezekiel grimaced into his soup. “Why do you put on your sergeant-major insignia? Do you enjoy lording it over the troops?”

“I have a position of service: authority and responsibilities,” she retorted.

“As do I, whether you see it or not. I’m the only human Blend on this expedition,” and here his eyes flicked at Spooky, “even if I am only one quarter Meme, and so I’m the ambassador. I can talk to them in ways no other human can. I’d think you’d understand these things, Jill.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I was out of line.” To cover her retreat she gestured with the cup. “Pretty good, this.”

“Thanks.
Roger
makes it.”

“Hmm?” Her eyes narrowed. “Roger?”

“My ship.
Steadfast Roger
.”

“Funny. That’s what my son is called. Named for a friend, may he rest in peace.”