Trial by Fire - eARC

by Charles E Gannon

  After about five seconds, Caine asked quietly, “What do you propose?”

  “We start with something passive, something that will work by eroding the exosapient's will and self-composure. White noise, biased toward the ultrasonic range. We can rig the intercom to produce it. We may have to play with the sound characteristics a bit, since we don't know what audial stimuli will create discomfort.”

  Caine looked disgusted, but nodded. He did not look at Trevor as he launched himself toward the door. “Let's get out of here,” he said.

  * * *

  Trevor started with a decibel level that would have been subaudible to a human subject, using sound waves in the 18,000-30,000 cycles range. It might have made the average person a bit edgy, but no more.

  They seemed equally ineffectual upon the Arat Kur. The room's emergency snoopscope—a single fiber-optic pickup hidden between the modular ceiling plates—showed the Arat Kur still suspended in midair, unmoving and apparently unaware of its surroundings.

  Trevor boosted the sound, but thirty minutes later, there was still no visible effect. Trevor checked his settings: a decibel level of 80 and a top sonic range of 40,000 cycles. The machinery was probably not capable of producing higher frequencies. Trevor let his eyes drift back to the decibel level indicator. Eighty was apparently not enough. Trevor depressed the control switch and held it down.

  The numbers mounted steadily.

  * * *

  “I wonder—”

  Trevor looked up; it was the first sound Caine had made in over an hour. Now, with almost no warning, he was already out of his acceleration couch, swimming around toward Trevor’s computer station. “Any activity?”

  “Not so far.”

  Riordan nodded, leaned over to study the alien's black and white image. “Trevor, I think I know why we haven't been having any luck with—” His words ended abruptly. Trevor looked over, knew what he’d see. Caine was staring at the decibel indicator.

  Without a word, Caine picked up his helmet, swam out the exit, headed in the direction of the Arat Kur's prison chamber. Trevor shook his head, killed the sound, and followed, his limbs still uncooperative and awkward.

  * * *

  It was a measure of how much Caine’s zero-gee facility had improved that he was already alongside the Arat Kur by the time Trevor arrived, handgun out.

  “You won't need it,” Caine said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Arat Kur is either dying or comatose. I can't tell which. Maybe both.”

  Trevor edged closer. How could Caine tell if the creature was even more withdrawn than before? There was no change in its appearance.

  Upon closer inspection, Trevor revised his assessment. The movement of the respiratory ducts was less pronounced, suggesting shallower breathing. However, the rate of respiration was increased, and there was a persistent tremor in the soft tissues. The only other change was in the hairs—no, the antennae—on the creature's back: they had all disappeared.

  Caine circled the alien slowly, inspecting every centimeter. When he got to the posterior, he leaned lower, inspected a previously unnoticed cloud of liquid globules. “This is probably the worst sign of all. I think it’s voided and has made no effort to move away from its own wastes. Pretty much a sure indicator that it has lost self-awareness or has impaired motor control.”

  “All right, so the sound was a bad idea.”

  “No. Just before I saw how high you pushed the sound, I was starting to think that the sound was simply pointless. I’m pretty sure that the audial stimuli didn’t do this.”

  “Why not?” Trevor’s attention momentarily strayed from the laser-point he was painting on the Arat Kur’s belly.

  “This creature is a burrower, so much of the sound made in its environment must persist as echoes. Consequently, its natural habitat is probably noisier than ours. So to hear an individual over any distance, an Arat Kur must be able to filter out background noise. Whether it achieves that filtering by mental discrimination or special anatomical structures is immaterial. What matters is that, evolutionarily, Arat Kur physiology and psychology must be able to tolerate audial distress and confusion.”

  Trevor frowned. “Let's say you're right. Then how do you explain the catatonia and the—?”

  But Caine hardly seemed to hear him. Riordan launched himself back into the corridor, where he scooped up two of the tethers he had used to tow the Arat Kur from the wreck. He somersaulted, kicked back into the room and set about trussing the alien with the longer tether. He tossed the other to Trevor. “Tie it on as a towline. Then keep your weapon on him.”

  Trevor lashed, then tugged, the towline. “Taut. Where are we—?”

  “Let's go.” Caine wrapped the end of the towline around his wrist.

  “Go where?”

  “Life support.”

  “Life support?” The words exploded out of Trevor before he could govern the dismay or the volume behind them. “Why?”

  “Just a hunch. Play along, okay?”

  “All right—for now. But at least tell me what you’re doing so that if something happens to you, I can try to finish the work.”

  “Sure. Since the sound didn’t have any effect, I started reviewing all our assumptions about its behavior, its environment. And I returned to the possibility that, if the Arat Kur was not willfully withdrawn, it might be because it was already reacting to something negative in the environment, something we don’t notice but which they find so aversive that it paralyzes them.”

  Trevor scowled. “Like what?”

  “Space, open space. That’s the one greatest difference between a burrower's environment and our own.”

  “Damn—yes, of course. Agoraphobia. And the answer was in front of us the moment we boarded their ship: the narrow passageways, the low-ceilinged rooms.”

  “And when I shot out the cockpit blister, even before it climbed onto you, the Arat Kur starting weakening, and then went rigid, like it was in shock. Or in this case, was immobilized by fear of the greatest open area of all: free space.”

  “Without a tether.”

  “Right. And when we brought him back here, what did we do? Put him in a high-ceilinged room. He was okay at first because the lights were out and he couldn't see the spaces that cause his agoraphobia.”

  Trevor nodded. “But then we came in and turned on the lights and left him behind. And here he is: wholly catatonic and withdrawn. So now we take him to life support to give him as crowded an environment as we can.”

  “And we see what happens.”

  “Sabotage, probably.”

  “Can't rule it out, but there are enough snoopscopes in life support to monitor his activity no matter where he goes. And the control room is only a few steps away.”

  “I hope you don't mind if I remain a little closer to our prisoner than that. Like on the other side of this door.” Trevor helped navigate the inert ovoid of the Arat Kur through the hatchway and toward the clutter at the heart of the life-support section.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The maze of machinery reached to within a meter of the ceiling, and had less than half a meter's clearance above the floor. Other than a narrow walkway around the outer perimeter, there was no other space wide enough to permit easy passage. A human would have to thread sideways if he wanted to move between the tubes, tanks, and centrifuges.

  Caine undid the tow line, and then the restraints. The Arat Kur floated motionless. Riordan pushed himself backward gently, floating out of the room at a leisurely pace. Laser aimpoint still painted on the alien's belly, Trevor shoved off the deck with his foot and drifted backward. As he cleared the room, the heavy vacuum-rated door slid shut.

  “Let’s hope it works,” Caine said.

  Trevor nodded and thought, It had better. Because we’re running out of time. All of us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adrift off Barnard’s Star 2 C

  “Trevor.”

  White lights. Modular bulk
heads. His limbs heavy with exhaustion and the dense materials comprising an emergency suit. And everywhere, the dissolving image of Opal’s face, like a shadow dispelled by a sudden ray of light, or a faint aroma dispersed by a breeze. Trevor swam up out of his dream, felt the door against his back, checked it: still closed.

  Caine’s voice was back in his helmet. “Are you awake?”

  “I—uh, yeah, yes.” And dreaming of the woman you’ve been sleeping with. The guilt sent a throb into his head.

  “There’s movement in life support.”

  “What kind of movement?” Trevor asked warily.

  “About an hour ago, some motion started in the Arat Kur’s limbs and front claws. Just a minute ago, it scooted under the filtration intakes and the osmotic scrubbers.”

  “How are his zero-gee skills?”

  “Pretty fair. Better than mine. His respiration seems to have resumed a normal rate.”

  Well, the Arat Kur was either recovering from his catatonic withdrawal or readying himself for an orgy of sabotage and destruction. Trevor thumbed the handgun's safety to the off position. “Do I go in?”

  “Not yet. I’ll relay live feed to your HUD.”

  A black and white image flickered on about two inches above and away from Trevor’s left eye. The creature seemed to be simply surveying its surroundings. It was moving slowly through the maze of life-support equipment, occasionally stopping to study a component here, a readout there.

  It completed its tour directly in front of the sealed door. It approached the door, inspected it thoroughly and then sat/laid down directly in front of it. Trevor activated the laser aimpoint on the handgun, commented, “I'm ready for him.”

  Caine did not answer immediately. “I don't think he intends any threat. In fact, I think—”

  Over the carrier tone in the communication system, Trevor heard a series of atonal whistles, clicks, and buzzes. “What was that? Are we losing communications?”

  “No, we're gaining communications. That was the Arat Kur.”

  “Singing for its supper?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I—” More whines, clacks and fluttering whistles. “I'd say he's interested in making contact, now.”

  “Probably wants to know where the plumbing is.”

  “Yeah, well I really don't care what he wants to talk about. I just care that he wants to talk.”

  Trevor heard a change in the comm channel's carrier tone; Caine’s voice was now in stereo, half coming from Trevor’s collar communicator, the other half emerging muffled and muted from the intercom behind the door into life support. “Hello. Can you understand this language?”

  A wild mélange of whistles, squeals, and grunts answered.

  Trevor sighed. “Does that mean ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Sounds like a dolphin playing a bagpipe filled with rocks.”

  More squawking, but slower and repetitive. The Arat scuttled forward and pushed its nose against the door. Trevor heard—and felt—the thump behind him. He raised his handgun. “I have the door covered.”

  “He’s not trying to escape.”

  “Oh? Then what’s he doing? Trying to scratch his back against the door jamb?”

  “No, but it's not ramming the door. It's simply approaching it, bumping it, and then backing off again. No running starts, no attempts to pry it open. It just wants out.”

  “What a surprise.”

  There was no answer.

  “Caine?”

  Another moment of silence, and then Caine’s voice answered—but not over the radio. He reappeared in the corridor, heading for the door Trevor was covering with the ten-millimeter. “I’m going in. Cover me.”

  “What? Wait a—”

  Caine pressed the control stud on the wall; the door slid back. Just fucking great. Trevor brought up the gun quickly. The Arat Kur scuttled backwards about a meter and then stopped. Caine stretched out his empty hands. The Arat Kur's front claws scissored the air once: a nervous, twitchy motion.

  “It could be preparing to attack,” muttered Trevor.

  “It could be the Arat Kur equivalent of wringing its hands,” Caine muttered back. He took a floating step into the room.

  The Arat Kur retreated about the same distance, then edged back toward Caine.

  “Seems friendly,” said Caine.

  “Or hungry.”

  The Arat Kur “sat” down and launched into a long series of repetitive squawks, wheezings, and whispers.

  Trevor listened. “What do you figure it's saying?”

  “Probably trying to do the same thing I did. Keep repeating basic phrases again and again, hoping that we'll hear something we recognize.”

  “And when he realizes that’s pointless? Then what?”

  The alien stopped cacophonizing abruptly. Trevor tightened his grip on the handgun. The Arat Kur's front claw began rising slowly, carefully. It stopped when it was pointing at the open door. Then the arm bent until the claw was pointing at the Arat Kur. Then back out the door.

  “He's asking to leave the room,” murmured Caine. “Politely.”

  “Right. So he can kill us. Politely.”

  “No, I don't think that's what he has in mind. We’ve got to take a chance and let him out.”

  Madness, complete madness. But Trevor pushed against the deck with his left toe and drifted slowly to the right, leaving the doorway unobstructed.

  The alien went through its pointing sequence again: the door, itself, the door. Caine pointed at the Arat Kur and out the door, ending with an exaggerated nod. The alien rose up, its claws outstretched. With a single coordinated kick from all four rear legs, it launched forward.

  And out the door. Caine somersaulted and swam after it. Trevor did his best to match their pace, but, still unable to use his left arm, lost sight of Caine as he entered the inter-deck access tube.

  “Caine, slow down. I can't keep up. I can't help you if that little bastard turns on you.”

  Caine either didn't hear or didn't care. “He's heading back for his first prison.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Damned if I know. Just keep following me.” A pause, then. “Turn around. Return to the upper deck.” Which meant that Trevor had to back himself up the inter-deck access tube; there wasn't enough room to turn around.

  “Go back? What the hell for?”

  “To make room for our guest.”

  At the bottom of the tube, Trevor saw motion. The Arat Kur had reentered the tube, carrying a bulky load. He was starting to swim up. Straight toward Trevor.

  As Trevor reverse-pushed awkwardly up the tube, the Arat Kur seemed to take notice of him and slow down. There was almost a sense of patient waiting. If the alien had had thumbs, Trevor would have expected to see the Arat Kur twiddling them.

  Once the way was clear, the Arat Kur shot up and out the tube, giving Trevor a better look at the bundle it had retrieved from its first prison: its spacesuit. Caine came sidewinding up after the alien.

  “Grab your helmet. I think we're going EVA.”

  “Caine, with our current whole body dose, this is probably the last time we’re going to be able to take a stroll around the neighborhood.”

  “I know it, but what choice do we really have?”

  Trevor sighed. “I’ll suit up.” He did, and just in time. A few seconds after establishing a seal, the alien led them into the airlock. It pointed to the outer door, itself, each of them, and then back at the outer door. Caine cycled the airlock and opened the door.

  Obviously, the alien had not been unconscious during its trip over to the command module. It swam outside and directly toward the boarding tether. After securing itself to the line with its own suit lanyard, it began towing itself back over to its wrecked ship.

  Caine’s skill and Trevor’s condition had both improved enough that they made a fast transit and a good jump down to the wreck. The Arat Kur, its front legs waving in something that looked very much lik
e glad excitation, lead them inside the wreck and directly to the door surrounded by scorch marks. It grasped the door “knob,” moored itself by grasping a handle protruding from the wall, and tugged. Then it stopped and looked at the two humans. Still looking at them, it mimicked the tug again.

  Caine took hold of another handle. “I think we're supposed to lend a hand here.”

  “Or a claw.”

  “Just pull.”

  After a few coordinated heaves, the door opened a crack, allowing the humans to finish the job with their pry bars. As soon as the way was clear, the Arat Kur darted in, almost disappearing into a dense thicket of burnt circuitry and warped cables. Trevor peered—and aimed—over Caine’s shoulder to watch the alien's speedy rerouting work. Caine nodded toward the ruined rainforest of wiring. “What do you think? His engineering section?”

  Trevor nodded. “Probably had multiple short-outs when the ship was hit. Just like the cutter did. It’s also why he couldn't use his engines or restart his power plant: he couldn't get in to reroute the command circuitry or power supplies.”

  Apparently finished, the Arat Kur turned, dove back into the corridor and motioned toward the bridge. Once the humans had followed him into that new location, the alien pointed at what they had conjectured was the main computer, itself, and then the computer again. Trevor and Caine exchanged resigned looks, and then nodded at the Arat Kur in unison.

  The alien slid into its acceleration couch, powered up the computer and began manipulating a set of touch screens with extraordinary speed. The deck began to vibrate faintly. A moment later, large metal panels sealed off the shattered cockpit blister and the tumbling star field beyond. A gentle hiss indicated that the chamber was repressurizing.

  A few more taps on the touchscreen and the bridge lit up, ringing the humans in holographic displays and dynamically reconfigurable control panels. About half of them were dark or malfunctioning, but that did not seem to impede the Arat Kur. Trevor felt a new vibration through the soles of his feet and simultaneously watched half of the orange lights on the control panels change to green. Evidently, the power plant was online. A moment later, he felt a sideways tug: thrust. The Arat Kur was starting to correct the wreck's tumble.