by A. S. Deller
The unloving creature’s back straightened, and its four arms and four legs jerked awake. Several corridors distant, Doc Martell controlled the movements of his “puppet” with his holo tablet, his eyes wide with perverted glee. Chief Petty Officer Hu and Lt. Rax stood by, weapons in hand, along with the other Petty Officers, and watched as Martell’s holographic representation of the Valgon staggered forward with a halting gait, an alien Frankenstein’s monster.
Kithsora reacted instinctively, shuffling away from the unholy abomination as it entered the air lock. When the creature’s armored tail was all the way through, the hatch closed with a whump.
Almost immediately, the outer hatch hissed open. Kithsora whirled around to find three Valgons awaiting him on the lek’s side of the opening. They all donned breathing masks over their beaklike mouthparts as well. The one in front was almost a foot shorter than the two behind him, who both held heavy plasma rifles in a ready pose. Those were obviously warrior caste. The one in front must be the Krell in command of the lek’s prison. It was, in fact, Krell Skeer.
“You have done your duty,” the Krell said. He stared suspiciously at Kithsora, and looked him up and down. “It is too bad only one prisoner remains. But, on the other claw, at least you killed many Terrans.” The Krell waved one of his fingered-arms and a warrior tromped forward, grabbed Kithsora’s shackles with a sharp, pale claw, and dragged him into the lek.
Skeer looked expectantly at the Valgon puppet, waiting for something.
Back in passageway C8, Rax whispered, “Well? Make it talk!”
“I have to do this just right,” Martell hissed back. He flicked his fingertips over several controls on his tablet.
In the air lock, the puppet moved. It placed its fingered-arms together, and its clawed-arms, and bowed, while its voice sieved out through the breathing mask, “The will of the Alliance is my will, Krell.”
Skeer said, “We will return in one cycle. Your decontamination procedures should be sufficiently complete by then.”
In passageway C8, Martell and the security team let out quiet sighs of relief. The ploy had worked.
In the air lock, Skeer turned to leave. The one remaining warrior stayed in his place. As Skeer ambled back into the infrared shadows, he called over a shoulder, “This one has served his purpose.”
The warrior pulled the trigger on his plasma rifle without pause, sending a string of plasma bolts into the Valgon puppet’s torso. The unliving thing crashed back against the inner hatch and slid to the floor, powder-blue blood and steam bubbling from tiny char-edged holes in its thorax as the plasma boiled its innards. The warrior turned and followed Skeer into the lek, and the outer hatch clanked shut behind it.
In passageway C8, Doc Martell blew out an angry gust, “Scheisse!”
Rax grinned, “I suppose putting on some puppet shows is now out of the question.”
On the bridge, the crew, all holding their breath, were able to relax. Rhodes spoke aloud, “Gulliver, you’re our eyes and ears. Get us everything you can, as fast as you can.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Talisman’s AI Core didn’t need to be reminded of the importance of his job, what may have been his final job, before he was consigned to the fate of all aberrants. There was a greater urgency than ever before, because the life of Sorakith...Kithsora... depended on Gulliver to concentrate as much of his formidable power as possible on a single task: Mapping as much of the lek essel as he could.
As Gulliver spread the wings of his sensory capabilities, he held tight onto the empathic link between himself and Kithsora. It was an extraordinary sensation, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of trying it before. Part of it relied on Kithsora allowing Gulliver to travel with him. It was an out of body experience for the AI, with Kithsora acting as a small pinpoint of sensors as he walked through the bowels of the lek.
Kithsora saw the wide, soaring halls, built so that Malign of all sizes could move anywhere they were needed. Gulliver saw them, too.
Kithsora heard the echoing bleats of food animals, being led to the slaughter, down some corridor possibly kilometers away, and so did Gulliver.
A Valgon warrior prodded Kithsora forward with the tip of his rifle, and Gulliver felt the alloy barrel of the gun, still warm from its plasma barrage.
Kithsora’s emotional state was also laid bare for the AI to access. Like an onion, the Althorian’s feelings peeled away for Gulliver to savor or cringe at: thrill of the unknown; a pall of dread as he was being marched to possible death (or worse); regret at leaving behind those he cared for. The twins. Rhodes. Gulliver.
Gulliver had to erect a wall between those emotions and Kithsora’s objective senses. It was too much of a distraction. The advantage Gulliver had was being able to process immense amount of data, and so he set to work analyzing every intake, from the slightest hum of the lek’s ventilation system to the brightest flare of torches coming from constructor Malign while they assembled a new Alliance ship. The map of the lek began to take form, expanding outward many miles from the Talisman’s dock.
As that database grew, Gulliver also tapped into Kithsora’s psionics as he attempted to find any kind of intimation that might point toward Preceptor Sior Herci’s location. It was a mission priority to find the Pernet scientist. He may be able to help unravel some of the Alliance’s biowarfare plans, which made him indispensable.
“Sorakith—-sorry, Kithsora—-is in, and so is Gulliver. We have to stay as quiet as possible until Gulliver can enter some of their sensory systems. When he finds us a way in, Rhodes and his team go EVA,” Captain Lancer recited to her crew over their comms.
Rhodes was already waiting outside air lock D, along with Rax, Hu, Nunez, Jecky, and PO Rasheed Chang. Several other Petty Officers helped them secure their EVA packs to their Standard Expeditionary Suits and triple-check their gear. Rhodes thought to everyone, “Yes, sir. We are already locked and loaded. Waiting for a ‘go’.”
In the main engineering compartment, Dr. Kyra Weller had taken a station next to Chief Falken. They each had their own checklists, and everything had to happen at just the right time. Kyra’s brow crinkled when she looked at how many moving parts the master plan consisted of. It was ridiculous, insane, and absolutely the best move they could make. Or attempt.
And at one point in her life she actually thought writing a PhD. dissertation was difficult.
Falken leaned over and said to Weller, “Okay, I have all of the Keevaks’ power systems slaved into our own, and all of its EM hardware has just been rigged up, too.”
“We can take it live—-“
“—-with the flick of a wrist,” Falken finished Weller’s sentence.
Gulliver’s calm voice reached them both at once, “Dr. Weller, Chief Falken, I am experiencing more difficulty than I had anticipated in finding a wireless route into the lek’s AI framework. If I continue to search remotely and am discovered, it will trigger security protocols that will endanger the mission.”
Frustrated, Kyra said, “I thought this might be the case. I was hoping not, but...”
“The EA team could trail a data conduit along with them, find an access and attach it,” Falken said. “I’ve already built some Terran-to-Valgon adapters for our work with the scoutship.”
“The EVA team can’t go until Gulliver is linked in,” said Weller. “Without that, he can’t give us any cover.”
Gulliver spoke up, “I have devised an option that has the greatest chance of success. Chief Falken’s team will need to work at their best possible speed and efficiency.”
Cassidy Falken huffed, “Well, let’s hear it then, you foistin’ windbag.”
A minute later, Lancer received a ping from Weller. “Captain, we’ve hit a complication. We’re going to need more time.”
“What do you mean by ‘more’, Doctor?”
“Maybe two hours. Two and a half, at the outside.”
“I’ll tell Commander Rhodes,” Lancer thought back to Weller befo
re signing off.
At air lock D, Rhodes’ chin dropped to his chest when he heard the news. The rest of the EVA team looked to him questioningly.
“XO?” Hu said.
“We need to stand down. There’s a delay, a couple hours,” said Rhodes, dejected. One of the Petty Officers reached up to take the Commander’s helmet off and he gently knocked her hand away. “I’ll do that, starman. Go back to your post.” As Rhodes unsealed his helmet with a hiss, he looked way up at Rax’s pug face full of tiny needle teeth. “What?”
“She will be okay. She is very durable,” said the big Kenek.
“You mean ‘he’. He is, durable. Tough. But he’s also stuck in a foisting Valgon prison cell, and that’s the best case scenario.”
Kithsora hollered in pain as the electrified, four-tailed flail slapped across his bare chest. It stung his skin, and all the way through to the frills on his back. His muscles went rigid as he convulsed against his restraints
There was already a swath of blisters across his torso, and his head pounded with a headache unforgiving as sitting in front of an amplifier at a Terran musical concert.
He could hardly string together enough words to produce a thought. He wondered how Gulliver was fairing, and if he was even any use at this point for the AI.
“You will tell me what you found in our laboratory, and if you’ve sent any probes or messages back to your Earth friends,” Skeer snarled as he paced before the Althorian, chained onto a tilted, standing table. “You will tell me, or I will skin you alive!”
Skeer swung the flail over Kithsora’s chest again, spattering sweat, and this time some blood, into the red-lit shadows of the holding cell. Kithsora spasmed again, which quickly settled into trembling.
“We found...nothing,” Kithsora managed to mumble.
“Lies! You had to have found what I left for you. You had to have found the human sucklings,” said Skeer. He dropped the flail to the deck and stepped in close. His sharp, glistening onyx mouthparts clacked in nervous movements only inches from Kithsora’s face.
“Yes,” Kithsora gasped through his breathing mask.
“Yes, what?”
“We found... three. Two humans, and one Pernet.”
Skeer’s mandibles clamped shut. He arched back and glared down at his victim, strapped tight, his wrists and legs chained. Kithsora had to fight to keep from grinning, even in the middle of all the pain. The look of confusion on the hideous Valgon’s face was amusing, if it could even be called a face.
“No. No, you couldn’t have,” Skeer reviled. One of his fingered-arms shot up and grabbed Kithsora by his throat. “We knew all about the Preceptor’s plans. We took all of the Pernet before we let the lab self-destruct. I made sure those human sucklings were still alive!”
Kithsora choked as the Valgon’s strong hand squeezed his neck. Skeer’s long, pale, thickly knuckled digits wrapped completely around his neck.
Now was as good a time as any, Kithsora thought. Not knowing when he might have an opportunity, he had initiated the Changing again, only hours after he had become a male. He could feel a difference in the length of his bones already. In order to complete it, Kithsora needed to become unconscious. He hoped Gulliver had learned enough to complete the mission. When, or if, Kithsora awoke, he would have to act quickly. He hoped for the best.
Skeer looked down on the Althorian, grinding his pincer jaws. Kithsora’s citrine eyes slowly rolled up inside his head until only the whites were showing. His body went limp, slouching down against the restraints. Skeer growled and let loose of the prisoner, and Kithsora sagged down further.
For a moment he considered taking up the flail again and shocking the disgusting creature back to a cognizant state. Skeer thought otherwise, though. Best to let it rest a while so that it could feel more pain later. He would flail it again, and after that move on to skinning its arms. Yes, that would be divine.
As the Valgon Krell trotted away, he had no clue that he was being watched by Gulliver’s extended remote sensory mesh. The Talisman AI was still active, despite Kithsora’s unconscious state.
Gulliver erected various partitions to prevent himself from becoming distraught by Kithsora’s debilitated condition. He comforted himself in knowing what he could from the Althorian’s biometrics, that Kithsora had allowed himself to black out. He had to revert back to his female form, and to do so required his mind to be insensate.
Still, Gulliver rued his helplessness. Without a direct link with the lek essel, all he could do was play witness to the goings-on of the depraved alien hive. While he waited for Chief Falken and Dr. Weller to do what he asked of them, he was at least able to generate increasingly detailed maps of the lek interior, overlapping all of the sensory details passageway by passageway and deck by deck. He related the maps back to the Talisman, and Captain Lancer would be able to see that this area of the space station enclosed all of the elements required by her plans to work.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Not far from where Kithsora hung unmoving on his table were the merkek prison cells where Preceptor Sior Herci and his fellow two Pernet scientists were housed. Sior lay on his bunk, little more than a plank of steel and a rough blanket. He stared at the bars of his cage with watery eyes. This zone of the Merkek was pumped full of a nitrogen and O2-rich atmosphere that was more hospitable to Pernet and other League races, who comprised most of the prison population. It was just enough to be survivable, but the air still burned the eyes and caused skin to tingle. It smelled just as awful as the Valgons, too.
Nearby, a hatch clunked open and Sior perked up. He watched as a Malign prison guard, six and a half feet of walking obsidian metal, led the other two Pernet down the hallway. Zera and Meor had their face masks on, freshly done with a shift working to devise the perfect killing pathogen for Terrans. As the guard nudged them, just forcefully enough, back into their shared cage, the two removed their masks. They returned Sior’s gaze with furrowed brows. Zera bared her two canine fangs at him, and Meor just shook his head and spat on the floor of the cell.
Sior spoke loudly, so that they might hear him from several cells away, “Please, you must listen to me. If we refuse to work for them, together, we can win. We need to be one in this. We need—-“
“No, you old fool,” Zera shouted, “They will just kill us! If we live another day we might find a way back home. I’m done arguing with you. Keep to yourself!”
The Malign shut their cage door and turned to march back from where it came, as if nothing happened. Sior buried his muzzle helplessly in his hands, feeling his short, coarse fur and whiskers slip through his slight fingers.
Sometimes Sior envied the Malign. They probably held no remorse for their actions. They probably felt no pain. They could travel the galaxy without fear of death, for to them death always resulted in rebirth in some shape or other. Of course, being a heartless champion of evil had to have some downsides. Maybe it was just the Valgons who held that role. Perhaps the Malign we actually less evil than those big shellfish.
Sior heard faint whispers, and peeked out of the corner of one of his glowing eyes through his fingertips. Zera and Meor were sitting on the same cot, having angry words with one another. It was probably Meor defending Sior. That young one always had a good conscience. Sior felt a pang of sorrow when he remembered the two of them as teenage kits, barely weened in his opinion.
After the Pernet massacre, survivors were rounded up and placed in camps, some on Valgon colony worlds, some on ships or leks. Zior found himself on a ship called the Vekks, the capitol ship of a Grand Krell’s main battle fleet. The prisoners were kept in what might be described as a small town built inside a massive compartment of the ship.
It was a village of nearly five hundred prisoners: Pernet, Kenek, Althorian. Even a couple sentient species that Sior was certain had never invented space travel, and probably weren’t even capable of such a feat. The prisoners’ primary job was to raise farm animals for the Valgons’ consumption.
The Preceptor must have toiled among the filthy woolly three-horned Kenekkari sheep stalls and rictathid coops for nearly a year before that fateful day when Grand Krell Sekrel, master of the Alliance’s scientific endeavors, had him transferred out of the village. He was carried bodily to a shuttle, and from there flown to a nearby Alliance star dock.
Elderly Sekrel met him in his chamber. Crippled and bent nearly in half by his almost two centuries of living, Sekrel was confined to an AI-controlled null-G chair that floated him wherever he needed to be. His pale skin hung in folds over his exoskeleton, studded with silvery bristles and streaked with muddy blue veins.
“Preceptor,” the Krell said in a tired voice, underpinned by a still-fierce determination, “It has come to my attention that you were one of your kind’s most preeminent experts on both pathogenic research and bioengineering. How fortunate it is that you just happened to be among our chosen stock.”
Sior stood there, his wrists and ankles strapped together, staring down at the floor. He could hear the Valgon warrior not a few feet behind him, its four legs subtly creaking as it tottered in boredom. He could smell the especially rancid reek of the old Krell’s breath as he spoke.
“Look at me when I address you, Pernet!”
Sior slowly looked up to greet Sekrel’s filmy black eyes with his own. Had the Preceptor not already become thoroughly inured to various horrors over the past year, he would have been shocked to see that the ancient Krell was attired almost completely in a robe made of tanned Althorian frills. Eighteen or twenty Althorians had to have been killed to drape the geezer’s rickety frame. Killed, if they were lucky.
Sekrel went on, “If I had not found you, you may have wound up some Grand Krell’s dinner. Possibly my own. You should thank me. Now, on to why I’ve brought you here.” Sekrel’s fingers nudged a small control on his chair and it slid toward him on a cushion of air. He stopped a yard in front of Sior before continuing, “Preceptor, we have need of your services. In return for a guarantee that you will be safe from harm and housed in a cleaner environment, and given better food, I would like you to help me in my laboratories. I will also need you to train another pair of your kind. Oh, and, once we succeed in doing what I have planned, you will be permitted to mate with as many others of your kind as you wish.”