Stardogs (20 page)

In the ground-control pyramid far below, the tracking-systems followed the incoming ship. To the west a second object was detected, heading for the usual crash-down site in the pupping-grounds. Stardog.

The logic circuits of ground-control’s enormous organo-computer flicked over the incoming data. The only non-instinctive inbuilt response coming out of the incoming ship had been a stream of pure gibberish, and not even on the usual hailing frequencies. It was strange to hear the automated signal responses coming out of a ship again after all these centuries. There’d been the others. The ones the in-surf dying Stardogs had brought in the past, but they’d all come in too fast, without the control that this craft had displayed. There had also been none of the recognition signals that this craft had given. The others had, inevitably, burnt on re-entry, which made following the ancient orders unnecessary. This one, however, was following a perfect entry trajectory, and was slowing. Well, the directives hastily given so long ago were clear: Destroy; incinerate regardless, rather than allow the contagion to spread. It had been a wise order, if late.

Deep within the pyramid relays clicked. The missiles slid gently onto the launch ramps. The explosive matter in the warheads was 1.8 centuries past replacement date, but that couldn’t be helped. Computing the standard infall pattern of Imm class personal craft was too precise to allow any possibility of a miss, and the impact would destroy the craft even if the explosives failed to vaporise it. The computer calculated the areas of highest probability of debris outfall and sent off appropriate warnings to the various regional civil defense command centers. Sections of rock slid aside and the eight missiles roared out of the launch ports. The symbols and measurement of time used were alien, but calculations showed impact in minus four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

Even in the lower ionosphere the difficulties that the metal junk inside her was causing to the ship-beast began to affect her. She’d been unable to reach the optimal descent shape and heat-dispersal configuration ideal for an Imm craft. It was also affecting her flight path and speed. The creature did her level best to compensate despite having to arrange special conduits of coolants for that piece of her integument. The Denaari had genetically engineered a high degree of safety in all their creations. As the Stardogs had instinctive death-in-surf-return-home patterns imprinted into their complex nervous systems, so too the ship-beasts had enormous capability to protect their cargoes from potential disasters. Enormous capability… but not enough to survive the impact of the eight missiles that were streaking inexorably towards her.

The poor shape configuration caused untoward vibration as the ship dropped into the stratosphere. It was causing the ship’s small mind enormous distress. Despite her best efforts the ship would undershoot the perfect landing at Ground-Control’s landing area… Calculating the effect of the higher air density in the troposphere she would land nearly 3 miles short. The landing area was perfectly flat for nearly 600 square miles, but the ship’s brain was a perfectionist by Denaari-improved nature. She organized slight changes in her braking configuration allowing a little more speed despite the vibration… Yet they were still nearly thirty yards from perfect position when they reached the point at which ground control had predicted impact.

The missiles were one minute and forty two seconds underway when the minuscule difference between the predicted and actual flight-speed of the incoming ship was noted by Ground-Control. A second salvo of missiles, ones with guidance systems this time, was launched with all possible haste. There was no help for it. The second salvo impact would be just inside the troposphere, and within 120 miles of Ground-Control itself.

The ship-beast that the human explorers had found abandoned off the planet they called New Sahara was one which had been bred specially for the mission to the Sil, the aliens who had struck back so hard at the Denaari, whose nanomech plague was then destroying the Denaari. The ships had been sent in a last desperate attempt to negotiate, but the plague’s mech-viruses had got to the crew first. It was thus a very unusual Imm class ship. It was one of the two Imm ships imprinted with evasive action patterns. The near miss in the stratosphere activated these circuits in the ship’s brain. She dropped like a stone.

The humans clinging to one another, and to the mattress they’d piled into the sous-cook’s bedchamber, screamed. In the drive chamber Juan heard them faintly as he slid wildly across the floor. He caught himself on a strut, before he landed in the heart of one of the strange alien devices. He clung desperately onto it, only to be knocked loose by his own kit-bag. Fortunately, the craft was now banking the other way, and he rolled across the floor and into what could have been an alien acceleration couch, except that it hung against the wall. It
definitely
hadn’t been there earlier. Something hit the ship with a hammer-blow, and Juan found himself bounced against the huge alien wall-hung recliner.

And, as it had been bred to do, it swallowed him.

Fortunately his face was sticking out of the gel-matrix, or he would have suffocated. As it was he just screamed. And screamed. He was, understandably, terrified. But, of all the humans on the crippled but gamely struggling ship-beast, he was also undoubtedly the safest during the wild maneuvers that followed. The gel did allow slow movements, but he was still too panicked to work this out.

Then a second missile finally struck home. The ship summersaulted. Died.

The chair, which was also an ejector escape pod, responded. A transparent lid snapped across the pod, and the ship-fabric parted to allow Juan and the pod clear of the ship. Looking down as he hurtled away, the boy could see the stricken craft, which must have been ten yards from achieving a successful emergency landing, roll and half bury itself into a huge-sand dune. The escape pod flung him a good thousand yards away from what it considered a danger-zone, before drifting in to a thistle-down landing.

For the first few seconds he just lay there, too scared to move. Then the transparent lid of the ejector-pod seat snapped back. Juan was the first human to breathe and smell the unmixed air of the Denaari Homeworld.

It stank.

He struggled furiously. It was no use. He was still stuck. Stuck in an alien device, on an alien world, on the wrong side of a low black ridge of what looked like volcanic glass. On the other side there was a crashed ship. There might be other survivors. There might even be help. He shouted. His voice echoed thinly down the valley. There was no other response.

On the other side of the ridge, in the imperial barge which had proved to be no barge but a planetary lander and a brave creature too, there was silence. Then a low groan.

“Can you get off me?” a plaintive female voice said in the darkness.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ow! My arm!”

“Sorry, Leaguesman”

“Grr!”

“There, Otto. It’s all right, babykin.”

Then there was light. The ubiquitous Deo had produced a small glow-stick. The makeshift crashcouch arrangement of mattresses and straps had failed to remain in one piece. It was just as well. They would all have been hanging from the ceiling otherwise. Now the only problem was that the upside-down doorway was nearly six feet up the wall.

They all seemed to be alive. Alive and sore with several bloody noses and some concussion or dead faints, but alive. The ship definitely wasn’t. You weren’t aware of the ship’s life-noises until they stopped. Now, the normally ever present murmur of the air-cyclers was stilled. The space-wise Martin Brettan knew claustrophobic fear. The airlock… could it be cycled manually? If this was a Denaari world surely the air would be breathable? If they could even get to the lock. The accessway had been between the forward chambers and the cockpit. They must have at least several hours of air in here, but the still air already felt… dead.

“Well I suppose I’d better go and scout. We’ll need to find a way out of here,” he said keeping his voice even, not without effort. “Can I take the light?”

“We’ll need it to treat the injured. You can explore later.” Shari’s voice had an edge to it. She’d been more upset than she should have been over the injury to that menial of hers. For the first time Martin wondered about the silent, near-invisible factotum’s position in the Princess’s life. Was the man her bed-warmer? Despite the dire situation a twinge of jealousy stirred in him. He carefully cultivated rumors about his own success in this field, but they were entirely baseless, despite his best efforts. It made him less than his usual urbane self in reply.

“Unless we can get out of here, seeing to the wounded will be a waste of effort. In case you hadn’t noticed the air-cyclers have stopped, Princess.”

Kadar, nursing his bruised and bloody beak snorted. “A rescue ship will be underway to us already. You can’t crash-land on an Empire world without being spotted.”

Something in the Viscount snapped. “You purblind fool! This isn’t an Empire world! You can stop deceiving yourself! And if those breakneck maneuvers on the way in weren’t evasive action, then I’m a Dutchman’s Aunt. Anyone coming to find us isn’t coming to
rescue
us!”

Kadar staggered to his feet. Even in the sickly light of the glow-stick his face was red and contorted with anger. “This is an ISS trick! You…”

Several hands, including Lila’s, pulled him down. She held Teovan’s .22 under his nose. “The air will last a lot longer if I blow your brains out.”

“Enough bickering!” Shari assumed command without even having to raise her voice. “Let us quickly give some first aid where it is necessary. Then you can take the light and go and see if you can find a way out, Viscount.”

“He’s not going without me. I don’t trust…”

“Shut up, Kadar,” said Shari.

Deo, who, having given the glow-stick to Caro Leyven to hold, had been quietly checking the status of the injured while this went on, spoke up “Princess, Lieutenant Albeer appears concussed but is breathing well. Lady Tanzo and the rider appear to be reviving. There are torches in the maintenance workshop. I shall go and fetch them.”

“No, Deo! You’re on the sick-list yourself. Viscount Brettan can go.” There was no hiding the concern in her voice.

He shook his head, a brief involuntary spasm of pain from this action crossing his usually impassive face. “The Viscount would not know where to look, Princess. I am perfectly all right.” The slight stagger as he stood up belied his words.

“No! You can hardly stand!” she protested, catching at his torn grey sleeve, pulling him down. The Kali-Ghurka holy assassins are trained to an incredible degree of toughness from an early age. They are taught how to block pain while in combat. But Deo was no longer feeling as young as he had been then… and blocking the pain didn’t prevent the dizziness and the nausea. His shaking legs were glad to stop being stood on, even if his mind was still willing.

“Hell. I’ll go.” Sam Teovan stood up. “I know where the torches are. Or were.”

“I’ll go with you.” The distrust in Martin Brettan’s voice was palpable.

“Sure. As long as he does too.” Sam pointed a thumb at the lean Leaguesman. “And as long as you two hold off fighting. Now, how about letting me get up on your shoulders, and I’ll try and open this door?”

The three and the light disappeared. Deo’s aching head found the darkness welcome, but he wished he’d looked around with better focused eyes while he could see. He was going to need a clear place to vomit shortly. Very shortly.