"A delaying tactic," he said coldly, his rage all the more apparent because he wasn't shouting for once. "That's all this conversation was. The whole time we've been talking, your assault craft was approaching the surface."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Simon.
Olera laughed. "You've just declared war. I certainly hope that fleet gets here soon, or you'll be fighting an entire world on your own."
Martin shook his head and sighed. "Tell the regent to call me," he said disgustedly, turning his back on the viewer and walking away. "I'm done talking to underlings."
As Olera launched into another full-bore rant, Martin looked at Neruda and drew a finger across his throat. She promptly severed the transmission, cutting off the minister in mid-howl.
"Ensign," said Martin as he returned to the command chair. "Contact the extraction team immediately and let them know they're expected."
"Aye, sir," said Neruda.
Martin allowed himself to slump in the chair. He felt exhausted after dealing with the impossible bureaucrat. "And find me someone else to talk to down there. Someone sane."
"Aye," said Neruda.
Once again, Martin wished that he was onboard the podcraft instead of sitting on the bridge. Talking was not his preferred method of resolving problems…and he wasn't nearly as good at it as he was at fighting. If every Vox official were as antagonistic and unyielding as Minister Olera, diplomatic efforts would be a futile waste of time, anyway.
Now that the Vox were aware of the extraction team's approach, he belonged on the podcraft more than ever. The Vox were sure to try to intercept the landing craft or at least mobilize forces to ambush the team when they debarked. The mission profile had become significantly more complicated; though he had confidence in Lopresti's leadership, Martin had doubts about the team's chance for success without his own direct participation.
Actually, he had doubts about the mission whether he was part of it or not. Even armed to the teeth as they were, how much of a chance did the team stand against a city-full of fanatical Olera types, all equally enraged over the use of a slur?
Still, he could not escape the feeling that the team in the podcraft would be better off with him leading the effort. He was convinced that he had made another wrong decision in staying behind instead of charging into the heart of the action, where he functioned most effectively.
He soon changed his mind about that one, however.
It started when he realized that it had been a little too long since the last countdown update from Tanner. Though he couldn't say to the minute how much time had passed since he had last heard from the helmsman, his internal clock told him that it had been more than fifteen minutes.
Noticing that Tanner was studying helm readouts with unusual interest, Simon rose from the command chair and moved to stand beside him. Ensign Bellweather glanced up at him, then returned his attention to the displays.
"What is it, Ensign?" said Martin.
Frowning, Tanner adjusted sensor controls on the console. "Rockets," he said. "They've just launched three of them."
"Missiles, you mean?" said Martin.
"No, sir," said Tanner. "No warheads. They're manned."
"I have a visual," said Ensign Levy, and the view on the screen changed. Magnification of the planet's image revealed three cylindrical objects riding fiery plumes into the stratosphere over Vox.
"What heading?" said Martin, eyes glued to the rising boosters.
"They're on an intercept course," said Tanner, "with us."
"I see," said Martin. "So the people we came to warn about the people who shot at us are now shooting at us themselves."
"Maybe it's their way of thanking us for the heads-up," said Tanner.
"Yeah," said Martin. "Must be."
As he watched the rockets climb, he reassessed his opinion on staying onboard Exogenesis instead of riding the podcraft. It seemed that he had made it to the heart of the action, after all.
"One other thing," said Tanner.
"What's that?" said Martin.
"We now have five hours, thirty minutes until fleet intercept," said Tanner.
Martin was on his way to the tactical station. "Time flies when you're having fun," he said, just before he activated a comm panel and put the ship on immediate red alert.
*****
Chapter Thirteen
Swift was surprised to be alive. After his and Zeke's escape attempt, when the guards had opened the street-side window wall and admitted the frenzied gallery crowd to the cell, he had thought for sure that his minutes were numbered.
The crowd had poured in like a tidal wave, smashing them up against the wall while the guards in the corridor watched with bemused interest. Though the humans had struggled to fend them off, they had been virtually immobilized by the crush of numbers. Zeke had tried to use the laser scalpel from the gurney, but it had been wrenched from his hand almost immediately and snapped in two.
Snarling Vox had fought each other to strike the captives and swipe them with their claws…and Swift thought that might have been what had saved his and Zeke's lives. Though the onslaught of claws and jaws had been constant, conflicts among the attackers had often obstructed the worst of the incoming slashes and blows. The cramped size of the cell itself had restricted the mob's movements, making it hard for reinforcements from the rear of the group to force their way forward to where the action was.
This was not to say that Swift and Zeke had had an easy time of it. On the contrary, they had both been severely battered and cut. By the time Swift had slid to the floor and lost consciousness, following in the footsteps of his partner, the two men had endured a flesh-tearing, bone-breaking beating that had easily surpassed their earlier punishment in the tower.
But at least they were still alive, and the crowd was gone from the cell. Swift suspected that the guards had had to clear out the crazed mob, though they had certainly taken their time doing so.
Everyone was gone from the room now, including the two Vox whom he and Zeke had assaulted. Swift wished that they had left their gurneys behind; it would have given him somewhere other than the floor to place his still unconscious friend.
He had tried several times to wake Zeke, with no success…and he was worried. Turner's face was bruised and puffy, and he had been cracked hard on the back of his head. The blood in his hair and his continued unconsciousness raised the possibility that he had suffered a concussion.
With each passing moment of his friend's unresponsive condition, Swift became more alarmed…and the guards ignored his repeated pleas for medical attention, if they even understood them.
Though defeatism was not part of his nature, Swift found himself at a loss as to what to do next.
He was without his ship, his crew, and his technology. He could not communicate with or understand the locals. He was imprisoned in a secure cell, under watch by guards and violent citizenry alike. His escape attempt had only succeeded in making things worse…and possibly fatally wounding his best friend.
He searched his mind for inspiration, for the seed of a plan, but he came up empty. Barring a lucky break, he could think of nothing that would change his situation for the better.
Keeping a hand on Zeke's shoulder, Swift tipped his head back against the wall of the cell and closed his eyes. There were times when he wasn't so thrilled about being the first Astrofleet captain to take a high-performance grav drive star cruiser into deep space.
Being the first meant that he got to make things up as he went along…which was liberating and exciting. Though the Hephaestans supplied plenty of suggestions for conduct, Swift took their advice with a grain of salt and fashioned his own rules and standards. Given the differences between his way of thinking and the Hephaestans', he had to act according to his own conscience in order to best represent humanity among alien species.
But sometimes, instead of being the one to write the book, Swift wished that he could be the one to read the book…a book f
ull of tips for star cruiser captains on how to get out of lethal jams on alien worlds. As much as he loved being a pioneer, unencumbered by precedents and overabundant regulations, he thought it would be nice once in a while (like now, for instance) to be able to refer back to another Earth captain's experience for a clue to resolving his own plight.
At times like this, when lives were in the balance and there was no answer in sight, Swift faltered under the weight of his historic charge.
Then, inevitably, the same urgency that weighed him down always turned into the same old refusal to give up under any circumstances.
Opening his eyes, Swift resumed brainstorming for a solution to his predicament. As hopeless as it seemed, there had to be a way out, a weakness in his prison or captors that he could exploit.
At that moment, opportunity knocked…literally.
He heard rapping from the gallery window, the same transparent wall that the guards had opened to admit the hostile mob. He was tempted to ignore it, since the gallery had rarely been silent since his arrival; he was in no mood to witness the antics of more attention-seeking Vox visitors come to taunt and provoke him.
When the rapping persisted, though, he turned his head in the direction of the sound. He was grateful to see that the furry swarms that had earlier packed the window had cleared away; instead, a mere trio of Vox looked back at him from the darkened street outside.
Not only were there fewer of them than before, but they were noticeably calmer. Instead of leaping around and shrieking, they just stood and watched him. One drew a fist back from knocking on the wall and opened it to wave at him; the gesture was brief and subdued, almost timid.
The longer Swift looked, the more he noticed other differences between his earlier tormentors and the new arrivals. This threesome had none of the painted markings that had been so prevalent among the others…and they looked smaller. Though he couldn't be sure without seeing them side by side with the rest, he had the impression that they were somewhat shorter and scrawnier.
Intrigued, he got to his feet…which was no easy task, given the severity of his own injuries. He was cut and bruised nearly as much as Zeke; he had a nasty double gash across his chest from Vox claws, and he was pretty sure he had a broken rib. The pain in his side was so sharp when he got up, he had to lean against the wall for a moment to catch his breath.
Straightening, he walked toward the window wall, expecting the three Vox to erupt into horseplay at his approach. Except for some nervous fidgeting and the twitching of whiskers, they remained calm.
Swift stopped a few feet from the wall and looked his visitors over. Now that he was closer, he could see that his impression of them had been accurate; they were definitely a smaller, skinnier variety of Vox. Whether their differences from the others were due to race or age, he could not immediately say for certain.
For a moment, he stood there and smiled, waiting for them to make the first move…until he realized that they were waiting for him. He sighed, unhappy at the prospect of attempting communication with the Vox after failing before. He had no time to waste on the mimicking mockery that had greeted his earlier efforts.
Then again, what else did he have to do at the moment, other than worry over Zeke and search for a way out of his escape-proof cell?
Clearing his throat, he took another step forward and put his hands on his chest. He hated to start off the same way he had the first time, but it still seemed like the only logical way to begin a conversation.
"Swift," he said. "I am Swift."
The three Vox became mildly agitated, but nothing like their clowning, screeching predecessors. Looking at each other, they exchanged words, clicks, and gestures, as if trying to come to a consensus on what to do next.
Swift repeated his name, wondering if he was about to see a replay of his earlier failure. If the three proceeded to chant his name and rebuff his overtures toward actual communication, he would turn right around and not so much as look at them again.
When they instead gave him the reaction he was hoping for, he felt like he had scored a major victory.
The smallest of the three, who had light brown fur, placed its hands on its chest as Swift had done. "Lyra," said the Vox in a high, soft voice that was unmistakably feminine. "I am Lyra."
Swift grinned. "Hello, Lyra," he said.
Whiskers twitching excitedly, Lyra clapped her hands. "Hello, Swift," she said.
The taller Vox at her right put its hands on its blonde-furred chest. "Altis," it said in a deeper, masculine voice. "I am Altis."
"Hello, Altis," said Swift.
"Hello, Swift," said the Vox.
That left the third Vox – red-furred, slightly shorter than Altis – to the other side of Lyra. "I am Uvo," he said, tapping his chest and nodding. "Hello, Swift."
"Hello, Uvo," said Swift. He was so pleased, he couldn't keep the smile off his bloody, battered face. Making introductions was such a small thing, he knew, and this encounter could still easily go sour…but he had finally made a connection.
Now, if he could just manage to continue the conversation without the aid of Mariko or a multiterpreter.
Turning, he walked back to his unconscious comrade on the floor and crouched beside him. "Zeke," he said, touching Turner's shoulder. "He is Zeke."
"Zeke," repeated Lyra.
Pressing his fingers against Zeke's throat, Swift found his pulse. Yet again, he gently shook him, to no avail. "Zeke is hurt," he said. "Hurt bad."
"Hurt?" said Uvo, craning his neck for a better look at the unconscious man.
Swift rose and walked back to the window wall. "Hurt," he said, pointing to the double gash on his chest. He repeated the word, indicating his swollen left eye, then a cut on his right cheek.
"Hurt," Uvo said knowingly, nodding his head. "Hurt," he said again, looking at his companions.
"Bad?" said Lyra, looking to Swift for help.
He thought for a moment, trying to figure out how best to get his point across. Then, he opened his arms wide and smiled broadly.
"Good!" he said, beaming with exaggerated delight. "Good!"
Next, he grimaced in pain and gripped his head with both hands. "Bad," he said despondently…hoping that his tone and gestures were universal enough for the Vox to recognize what they symbolized. "Bad."
Then, he pointed to the gash on his chest again. "Hurt," he said, and then he grimaced and held his head. "Bad. Hurt bad."
Lyra sounded fascinated as she repeated it. "Hurt bad. Zeke is hurt bad."
"Good," said Swift, nodding and grinning. He thought he understood, at least a little, the kind of satisfaction that Mariko felt when she got through to an alien race. Despite the differences in language, physiology, and frame of reference, he was communicating with another intelligence that he had never encountered before.
Of course, the communication wasn't perfect. "Zeke is hurt good?" said Altis, furrowing his brow and cocking his head to one side.
"No, no," said Swift. He extended his hands and considered what to say next…then clapped them together as he made up his mind. "Me," he said, placing his hands on his chest. "Swift. Me."
He swept an arm in front of him, taking in the three Vox. "You," he said, repeating the gesture. "Lyra, Altis, Uvo. You."
"You," said Uvo, tapping his own chest with a clawed forefinger. "Uvo. You."
Swift almost tried to correct him but decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. Uvo's understanding was close enough; Swift thought the conversation might bog down if he took the time to try to explain why a person referred to himself as "me" but was referred to as "you" by someone else.
"You," said Swift, again sweeping his arm to take in the threesome. Then, he pointed to his mouth. "Talk," he said. He flapped the fingers of one hand up and down, bouncing off the thumb, simulating the movement of lips. "Talk," he repeated.
"Talk," said Altis.
"You," said Swift, gesturing at his visitors. "Talk," he said, flapping his fingers and thumb…a
nd then he grinned broadly and spread his arms wide. "Good! You talk good."
"You talk good," said Lyra, and then the three Vox chattered excitedly among themselves.
Swift watched their animated exchange. The more time he spent with them, the more convinced he became that they were indeed younger than most of the Vox whom he had encountered…but not children. They looked too big to be children, but were not quite adults; he guessed they might be the Vox equivalent of teenagers. If teenagers on Vox were at all similar to teenagers on Earth, it might explain why they were taking a friendly interest in him…because it would be the last thing the Vox adults would want them to do.
Swift hoped that was the case. Perhaps, he could persuade them to do more than just take an interest.
Crossing the cell, he pointed to his unconscious friend on the floor. "Zeke is hurt bad," he said. Dropping to his knees, he moved his hands over him, patting the air above his upper body. Without knowing what the Vox thought of as medical treatment, he tried to simulate tending to Zeke's injuries.
"Help," he said. "Help Zeke."
As the Vox watched, he looked back at them pleadingly, willing them to understand. "Zeke is hurt bad," he said. "Help Zeke."
The three Vox conferred, trading chatter, clicks, and gestures. Altis and Lyra raised their voices, and Swift thought they might be arguing…but it didn't last long. Altis ended up lowering his voice while Lyra's stayed loud and firm, suggesting to Swift that she had won.
He hoped that was a good thing.
While he continued to pat his hands above his friend's inert form, Lyra spoke to him. "Swift," she said. "Lyra help Zeke."
"Good," said Swift. He nodded and stopped moving his hands over Zeke, wondering what the three Vox were going to do…and if they even understood what he wanted from them. Here was the flip side of the thrill of unassisted communication with an alien race: realizing that so much depended on getting a message across and wondering if there was any chance that he had succeeded.
Lyra exchanged words with her friends, and then the three of them started hammering their fists against the polymer wall and shouting.
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