Ryan watched the robot in the monitors until it disappeared into the gaping hole.
A few minutes passed, and Gem provided an update. "Ziggy reports he has located the core, Captain."
"Good, tell him to move fast."
The memory cores were standard pieces of equipment on Xi-Empire ships. They function as a primary storage pool for all the computer systems on the ship, holding literally every important piece of data. This included navigation maps, system software, and the ship's personnel logs. They were designed to be as indestructible as possible and easily jettisoned in the event of a disaster. Extracting these units was tedious, as they were usually tied into a number of self-destructive circuits. It was simply impossible for a Ryan to pull out the unit successfully, but not so for a robot like Ziggy.
"E.T.A is 45 seconds," reported Gem.
"Very good," Ryan replied as he checked the antimatter dispersal controls, prepping for the jump to acroluc. "We'll have to fabricate an interface to access the core," he thought out loud to Gem.
"Ziggy has returned."
Indicator lights on the airlock showed pressurization in progress. A few seconds later Ziggy stepped out, a thick layer of frost covering his metallic body.
"Thank you, Ziggy," nodded Ryan.
"You're welcome," came the reply, through Gem.
“See if you can build an interface for that thing.”
The airlock door hissed shut as Ziggy headed back down to the machine shop.
Ryan brought the Dancing Queen around the derelict one more time with tracing scanners on full, searching for any missed survivors. The tracings exposed two Xilozaks within the port side of the ship. Ryan aimed the cannon and fired. The front port section of the ship disappeared, exposing many levels of mangled decks now open to the vacuum of space. A chain reaction of explosions chased down the centreline of the ship from stern to bow. The antimatter containment finally failed. The remainder of the stern disintegrated in one last violent blast, rolling the wreck over end-for-end, leaving parts of itself in its wake. Whatever atmosphere was left now billowed out in flaming clouds of red, orange and purple.
His first kill but it wouldn't be his last.
He brought the Dancing Queen on course and fired the burners, leaving the wreck far behind. It would drift on indefinitely, locked within its death roll, forever lost in the cold dark endless night of space. Space, so incalculably vast, rarely surrenders her dead.
Ryan watched as it disappeared in the rear monitors. It would make such a nice warning to the slavers out there. Next time, he’ll let them broadcast a general SOS.
The ship powered up her antimatter dispersal circuits as it began to accelerate. The anti-gravs whined their familiar protests as they fought to maintain the constant gravitational field within the ship. The jump to acroluc was quick, and subsequent jumps even faster: 10x, 25x, 100x the speed of light. Ryan curbed the acceleration and leveled off. The Dancing Queen was capable of much higher speeds, but operating forward tracings could not provide a suitable warning of impending collisions. The onboard navigation computers, subcomponents of Gem watched far ahead, analyzing tight band tracing emissions. They constantly made slight adjustments to keep the ship from colliding with a star or some other celestial body as the ship flew on its predestined course.
In the cockpit, Ryan watched the stars blink in and out of existence as blurry streaks of light. He felt mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of colors. It was a sight he would never get used to. Once satisfied everything was in order, he headed back to the cargo hold, medical supplies in hand. When he walked in, all heads turned his way. He could feel their questioning eyes.
"Gem, ready translation through the intercom. How’d the Brog translation work?"
"Unknown. Need more feedback.”
“Regardless, I don’t think they are the best at talking.”
He addressed the small crowd. They watched him intently. They didn’t know who he was, or what his intentions were, exactly.
"Friends, you are no longer slaves. We share an enemy, which is the Xi-Empire. We are headed toward a Xeronian colony, where you will be fed and cared for. The people of this planet are peaceful and kind. They are not like you or me, but I ask you to treat them as your friends.”
“In the meantime, I will tend to your needs as best I can. I need to check each of you; the sick will be given priority. I ask that you follow my orders and hold your questions until I have seen to everyone."
Difficult and tiring hours followed. Each of the slaves needed to be sterilized and medically scanned. Most were in poor condition, weak, malnourished, and suffering from a number of infections and parasites. But no matter how bad they were, they all had a strange look on their faces.
Disbelief? Shock? Relief? It was the look of freedom. He probably looked the same way that day he arrived at the Xeronian colony.
Ziggy set up a portable shower in the hold. It helped to wash off the filth off before he examined them. The robot was also the attending tailor and barber. The robot tried his best to meet everyone’s wishes, although it had some difficulty fabricating the Showmish clothing.
Ryan was not a doctor, although his studies had covered the physiology of many races. If one of the slaves were in serious enough condition, he would have to bring him/her to the medical bay. So far, it wasn’t warranted.
He felt them watching him, relentlessly. Every time he turned, he caught them staring. It was annoying as hell, but at least they followed his orders.
There were 11 humans altogether. Six females, five males. Most of their wounds were infected. It was a wonder any of them were still alive. One woman, a victim of the charged whip, had deep cuts running down her back, onto her arms and hands. They were probably inflicted when she tried to protect herself. She was very young, early 20’s. She had a kind face with high cheekbones and a small mouth. Her hair was a rich brown that matched her deep, dark brown eyes. When he looked into them, he felt like he was looking into her soul. He turned away quickly, not wanting to feel her pain.
He was almost done her dressing, just her arm and hand remained.
"Who are you?" she said softly.
"What did you say?" Ryan replied, caught completely off-guard.
"Who are you?"
"I didn't know you knew English," he smiled back at her. "My name is Ryan. I am from Earth - are you?"
"And this is your ship?" A man stepped forward to ask. He was the same one who spoke to him in the slave cell - a strong looking man, average height, blond hair, probably early 30’s. His face showed the lines of stress, making him look older than he should.
“I didn’t know our military had starships.”
"Yes, this is my ship. I call her the Dancing Queen. No, I am not with the military."
"You are a long way from home," the brunette said quietly.
He turned his attention back to the woman. "Pardon?"
"My name is Alexandria."
"Glad to meet you."
"We have all been captured by these damned aliens," interrupted the man. "There were more of us, but this is all that is left. Only four of us can speak English. The rest are crazy or speak something some gawdawful gibberish."
"You two – and the others?" asked Ryan.
A red-headed man stepped forward. He was lean, with a face that was weathered from years of pain. His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. By his features, he looked like the type that was quick to laugh, but that had been long ago.
"My name is McClary. The mouthpiece over there – he pointed to the blond man – his name is Jim Smith. He's a nervous type, so don't mind him... You said your name is Ryan. A downright Irish name if I may say."
"Well, American actually."
"You said you pilot this ship, lad?"
"Yes."
"Then you can take us back home!" Alexandria’s eyes were wide and she could not hide the pleading in her voice.
"No, I'm sorry. I can’t. I have a promise to fulfill, a debt to pay. Be
sides, I don’t know where Earth is, at least not yet."
Alexandria's brown eyes began to fill with tears.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, fighting to clear his throat.
She turned away resentfully.
Could he blame her?
A hissing sound behind him caught his attention. A lone Showmish spoke. The translation came through the intercom.
"We are in your debt, Earthman, we of Shawma. I am called Wharsoff."
"Wharsoff of Shawma, your debt is already paid."
"Such a debt can only be repaid in blood."
Ryan assessed him. A slight creature, but capable. He remembered them from the mines. Their strength was surprising.
“You owe me nothing.”
"You have no escorts. You destroyed that slavership all alone, did you?"
"I’m just starting."
The Showmish hissed with amusement. "You have a sense of humor. That is required if you intend to fight the Xi-Empire on your own."
"I do not intend to fight the Xi-Empire. I intend to destroy it. Completely."
The Brog growled spasmodically. Its body shook in concert.
The damn thing was laughing. How the hell was it understanding Showmish?
As its performance died, it spit out a guttural form of Trinarieit. "Your goals are too grand, Earthman!"
"So you can speak, Brog," replied Ryan. "And I thought you were incapable."
"I listen. You are only one, one against millions."
"Look buddy, I don't want to be stuck in the middle of a war!" Jim intervened, his voice bitter, desperate. “I just want to go home.”
Ryan glanced back, irritated. Desperate human faces were awaiting his reply.
"You don't have a choice," Ryan stated flatly. "And neither do I. That's just the way it is."
He tightened the last bandage with a jerk and stood up.
“This war started a long time ago, way before us. Whether any of you like it or not, you’re already involved. You, Brog, you should know I don't intend to fight this war on my own, but I will."
"So are you looking for recruits, Earthman?" hissed Wharsoff.
"I won’t refuse the help."
"Then I will join you, and we will die together," announced Wharsoff.
Ryan laughed. “We’ll bring a lot of them with us.”
"All wars lead to death," stated the Brog. "I am Gor, father of the Tatunckt, High Chieftain of the northern tribe of Grak. I will join your crusade - for a price."
"Which is?"
"My mate is sick. She will die. Help her.”
“I’ve done everything I can for now. The Xeronians, my friends, might be able to help. If anyone can, they can. But you must trust me on this."
Gor shifted his tremendous bulk from one hidden foot to another, obviously contemplating. "Trust I will."
"Good."
He turned to the Showmish. "Wharsoff, this is not your native atmosphere. Is it endangering your people?"
"No. Malnutrition is our enemy. This atmosphere will suffice."
Ryan pointed to Ziggy. “He will see to your food. If you require more, just ask." The spindly metallic servant bowed ever so slightly.
McClary stepped beside him and reached out his hand. "You did save my life, even if you will not give it back to me." A wide grin flashed across his face.
"How's he doing?" Ryan was referring to the man McClary and Jim had carried to the ship. The man was in the worst condition of them all.
"Better."
A quick check with his portable scanner showed he was stable. He needed rest and time to heal.
"What happened to him?"
"They beat him. Took four of them. He just wouldn't stay down, damn fool. All he had to do was stay down."
Ryan eyed the Scott closely; the man was visibly shaking. "Why don’t you sit down? I’m pretty sure he'll make it. You’ve all made it. You’re safe – I’ll see to that."
A few more eyes moved in his direction, no longer averted.
He did, after all, save their lives. What was their damn problem anyway?
"I've work to do. Ziggy will take care of you while I'm away. I’ll ask you to remain in this part of the ship during our return flight."
"What is this place like that we’re headed to, this colony?” asked McClary.
"Trust me, it’s heaven in comparison to where you were."
* * *
The slaver's logs were extensive. Ryan scoured through every last entry, every file. Something was there that would be useful, and he was sure of it. An entry jumped out at him on the final approach to the Xeronian colony. It was in the Captain's personal logs: an excerpt about a slaver captain - an old friend who paid a large sum of credits to the empirical Admiral for the daughter of a Signite Governor. The slavership was called the Xabunzt II. He read it over three times. The information was old, but it was a starting point.
Gem diverted his attention with a navigation update.
The Xeronian’s planet loomed ahead, red and angry. The Par resonated weakly even at this distance. In a moment they knew he had returned.
"This is the Dancing Queen, E.T.A - two minutes," Ryan relayed. A welcome was returned, both cordial and dry.
He dumped over a block of information onto the Par reserved for his log entries. It provided the Xeronians with a complete update of his travels – and the ex-slaves he had on board.
He flew the Dancing Queen in low, down into the cover of angry winds, and between the mountains. She slid into the bay gracefully. All around, Xeronians scurried about, carefully shuttling about a maze of transparent structures.
Tsaurau called to him. "We are not ready yet. We need to follow stringent sterilization procedures."
“Of course, we’ll have to wait, but...”
"This Brog you have brought us is near death."
"Yes. And I don’t want to be around her mate if she does pass away."
"We will exercise precautions. I will ensure we have the medical teams ready. It will not be long."
"I understand. Tsaurau, I've found something else in the logs. It’s an outside chance. I don’t know how old this information is, but I might be able to find her."
“Her? You are referring to Aviore?”
“Yes.”
“There is something else, Ryan. I suspect it will interfere with your plans. Our surveillance probes have picked up some disturbing news. The council has requested your presence.”
“Alright,” he replied somberly. “After I see to our passengers then.”
Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
He went down to the cargo hold. This time he was greeted with a wall of silence. They watched, and waited, studying him carefully. He could read the humans: pale, taut, fidgety. They were nervous, awaiting the possibility of a continuing nightmare. Was he a slaver or wasn't he? As for the aliens, their thoughts were probably the same. He just couldn’t read them.
"McClary,” he called.
The Scott approached. His color was not quite there, a visible shakiness in his gait.
"You may have guessed we’ve landed, but we’ll need to wait. We present a biological hazard to our Xeronian friends. Safety measures need to be taken."
"Are you on the level with us?"
The Brog shifted its stance, ready to pounce. Three meters away but close enough to rip him in half in the blink of an eye.
"Of course. Everything is OK. I'll prove it soon enough. Just remain calm.” He turned to address everyone. “I will repeat, you are safe. I’ll wait here with you."
Most seemed transfixed on the cargo doors. A few swung their gaze back and forth, assessing him silently, looking for any hint of deceit. Ryan waited calmly, bouncing navigational charts through his mind, planning.
News came over the Par. "They are ready." He announced, opening the cargo bay door. The ramp lowered to the floor quietly. No Xi-troopers marched in to meet them. Outside details were blurred behinds a maze of imperfect transparency.
"O
ur Xeronian friends have erected a containment system. You need to stay within it and do what they ask you. Right now you could be carrying some kind of pathogen that could kill them or, possibly, the other way around. Just listen to them, and we will all be out of quarantine shortly.”
Pale but tentatively trusting faces nodded.
He turned to the Brog. “Gor, if your mate can be saved, the Xeronians can do it if you can trust them."
"Trust you earn when I see I am truly free."
"Then go," motioned Ryan. "Be the first."
The Brog marched down, his mate tucked close to his side. Behind him, others followed, all cautiously, many carrying the sick and injured with them.
As they moved down the short tunnel, they could see Xeronian faces peered through the containment tunnel.
"They're ugly as sin," remarked McClary.
Ryan laughed and patted the Scott on the back. “I see you say what you think, McClary.”
They had enveloped the ship's exit with a transparent tunnel leading to a circular area in the center of the bay. Multiple decontamination booths stood ready. A surgical team, fully equipped with envirosuits awaited at the main receiving area.
At first sight of the ferocious-looking Brog, the Xeronians backed away. Ryan quickly moved between them, simultaneously waving over the medical lead.
"Gor, this is the chief surgeon.” He stated in Showmish. “His team will do everything they can for your mate. Please follow his direction."
He nodded to another Xeronian. "Can you help the Showmish?"
"We have constructed an area with a more adequate atmosphere. We will attend to their needs there."
"Good.”
"I need to see Tsaurau." A familiar crew of faces outside the transparent walls nodded to him a minute later. A fog filled the bay no more than a meter high; a product of the cooling vents discharging from the Dancing Queen. Xeronians scurried around, often invisible under the blanket of white haze. They had already scurried into the ship to perform a myriad of tests and follow-up maintenance activities.
Tsaurau stood waiting. "Good to see you, my friend,” he said with a pert nod. “You have already started to make a difference.”
"Less than a scratch. I’ll call it luck. You’ll note in my report I managed to pull the slaver’s memory core. I'll leave it with you to further analyze before I go. I’d appreciate your insights on some possible course vectors."
A Bellicose Dance Page 31