Analog SFF, September 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She leaned hard on a long-handled hoe, struggling to uproot a sinewy loop of bluefruit vine. In time, once the shock wore off, surely the humans would help. It would be their only alternative to synthesized pap. It would be something to do.

  On what basis did she ascribe certainty to prospective human behavior? A few shifts sharing the same space? One long, traumatic conversation?

  Whether that session had meant anything to Eva, it had been profoundly moving to Gwu. Even dear Swee was one of the crew-kindred, one for whom, and to whom, she was responsible. Whatever her relationship with the humans, responsibility was not involved. For the first time since leaving the Double Suns, Gwu had been able to unburden herself.

  The root-loop tore free of the packed soil, and she sidled to the next. The need for oneness with nature—even the inherently simplified nature of a habitat biosphere—was innate. The humans, like the K'vithians, did not understand that. Mashkith always seemed amused when she labored alongside the crew-kindred. Eva, without the condescension, emanated the same surprise. Gwu turned her frustration to a tough root, as though it personally had denied her the wisdom to bridge the chasm between species.

  Eva and Corinne emerged from a stand of mixed ornamental trees, where they now convened regularly. They were fools if they thought the K'vithians did not overhear them. Gwu hoped they were suitably circumspect. Even her own recent cathartic release had been limited to information the K'vithians must know or suspect she knew.

  Eva approached. “May we talk?"

  “Of course.” Gwu dropped her hoe. “About what?"

  Eva stood silently until the next rumble sounded. The soil-covered deck vibrated beneath them. “About that. I believe a rescue attempt is underway."

  T'bck Ra had told her the same, a confirmation Gwu dare not communicate. “I would be happy for my new human friends if they could go home.” Would we, too, be allowed to go home? “Do not invest too much hope in unexplained noises."

  “I say this assuming we are being overheard. We must be prepared to help. We must plan to help.” In the already familiar stiff manner of humans, Eva swiveled her head to sweep her gaze through a half-circle of arc. “You Snakes, I know you are watching and listening. You better watch us! We won't go down easily."

  Taunting the armed K'vithians was folly! Gwu supposed the threat would divert some few more resources to watching them and guarding access to the prison areas. To the extent of that redirection, the threat might assist the rescuers. She struggled to recover another fragment from her long-ago study of humans, something about windmills and madmen. Eva's dare to their captors was so ... quixotic.

  And yet, what had caution accomplished for the crew-kindred?

  Gwu's thoughts swung around and around as her new friend returned to the cluster of humans. Rescuers were aboard the ship—outnumbered, would-be rescuers surely doomed to captivity or death. Could her people swing the balance? Could the few human prisoners, now abruptly scattering in pairs as though in search, make the difference? Harmony had never carried weapons, and the K'vithians had certainly not provided any to the crew-kindred.

  The humans’ defiance was somehow bracing. Gwu recovered her hoe and began hacking at the tough vines, the jarring blows oddly satisfying. Suppose, she thought, just suppose. What could we do?

  * * * *

  Art stood in inky darkness, shoulders hunched to the extent spacesuit and closet walls would allow, shivering. The traumatized six-year-old who had never left him wanted only to scream. He clamped his jaws before any sound could escape. What else could he control?

  Occasional rumbles and vibrations gave witness to the battles still ongoing. Enigmatic commands and clipped, desperate reports over encrypted net channels did the same. He could do nothing to influence those events, either.

  He had reached graduate school before admitting why, really, he had made his career choice. Engineering meant understanding how things worked, how to prevent accidents, how to recover from accidents if necessary. Becoming an engineer was a way never again to be a helpless observer to disaster. Never again a victim.

  How did that work out for you, Art?

  He pulled in a long, deep breath. The pressure suit fought his attempt to expand his ribcage. He ignored that as beyond his control, directing his awareness to his diaphragm. In ... hold ... out. In ... hold ... out. Even ... gentle ... breathing. He added images of lapping waves, sparkling sun, seabirds wheeling and piping overhead. Slowly, the panic ebbed.

  Guilt replaced the panic, and was just as unproductive. What could he do?

  He pulled up the mission's consensual tactical display. The detailed—and false—map on which the raid had been planned was gone. A patchwork of discovered passageways and featureless terra incognita replaced it. Scattered ‘bots, like so many modern electronic breadcrumbs, marked a path back to the launch bay. The two raiding parties were at opposite sides of the ship. Replaying recent status updates showed the decoy team pinned down and Carlos’ team under assault.

  What could he do?

  Terra incognita stretched all around him, interrupted only by the path threaded by the fast-moving special-ops team. Would following them be wise? Probably not. But he could work on the map. With a thought, he superimposed over the map the positions of every gnat-sized ‘bot. Carefully, he set several to exploring. The little devices flew down corridors, and into and along air ducts. The ducts allowed him to circumvent many closed doors.

  “Carlos.” He netted an image “Snakes in combat armor headed your way."

  “Welcome back."

  “I only caught the end of a group going around a corner, moving faster than the ‘bot could follow. I saw eight."

  “Thanks. Keep watching."

  The map began filling out, although at the ‘bots’ bug-like speed, exploring the whole ship would take days. Days they did not have. Art gave himself a silent cheer after two ‘bots made it between the closing doors of what appeared to be the main central elevator. Most enemy troop movements traversed the ship by elevator. He sent one ‘bot after a big group of Snakes in armor.

  Uh-oh. He netted another image. “Carlos. There's a bunch setting up outside the engine room.” There was no answer. “Carlos? What do you need?"

  A loud rumble, and another tremor shook the floor. “A new plan would be handy."

  * * * *

  Mashkith circled the current tactical holo. The main human assault team remained surrounded and immobilized, although by fewer troops than had originally blunted their advance. Lothwer still had more than ample resources to defeat or destroy them. At the opposite end of the ship, Glithwah directed a hastily gathered second force. They had blocked the advance of the second raiding party, whose existence she had confirmed, and secured the engine room. Armed patrols now swept the ship from bow to stern, seeking the source of slowly spreading encrypted radio chatter. Reserves were positioned at several spots throughout the ship.

  All the military police were now under Keffah's command, to reinforce security in and around the prisoner area. Eva Gutierrez's words were almost certainly empty bravado—but what if she incited her cohorts to foolishness? Abduction of the human experts had cost too many lives—on both sides. Mashkith did not intend to lose any of them—or their expertise—now. Would a show of force intimidate them, or spark their slaughter? Claws extending and retracting in repressed rage and frustration, he refined Keffah's orders: The prisoners were to be contained but otherwise ignored unless overtly hostile acts threatened.

  Protected: bridge and engine room, family barracks and farm/prison, supplies. Deployed: pre-positioned reserves and active patrols in search of the unexpected. Everything is under control, Mashkith told himself. Everything is firmly under control.

  It did not feel under control.

  * * * *

  A large chunk of Art's ever-evolving map was a sealed-off region protected by lightly armed guards. Behind the barriers, a good third of the ship remained unknown. He directed more and more ‘bots at
the enigmatic zone, to be stymied each time by locked-and-guarded doors and heavily filtered air ducts.

  It was a mystery that would have to wait. The ‘bots also showed patrols sweeping the hallways, opening doors. In a few minutes, the turn of his deck would come. His closet torture chamber and haven would be revealed. Guided by IR images captured by the ‘bots, Art crept toward an empty stairwell. The door closed silently behind him as, in his augmented vision, the elevator opened to admit five armed Snakes onto his deck. He retreated up the stairs to the deck they had just vacated, cringing at every soft scuff of his boots.

  He had not seen Centaurs or human prisoners. He had not seen into the sealed region. Coincidence? Probably not. He had also not yet seen any significant plant life, and there had to be a biosphere, a sustainable oxygen source somewhere. Victorious had launched from Alpha Cen with a Centaur-friendly ecosystem. The ship must still have one, behind filters rigged to impede sulfur contamination.

  With any luck, he would be undisturbed for a few minutes in a laboratory just checked out and cleared by the patrol. He settled to the floor, his back to a sturdy cabinet. In the map, ‘bots now surrounded the unknown zone. He switched encryptions to diplomatic-mission standard.

  For all his confident theorizing, it was a relief to finally “hear” Eva's voice.

  * * * *

  Humans roamed the farm, exploring the limits of their confinement. They searched cabinets and storerooms, seeking for Gwu knew not what. Weapons, she supposed, recalling Eva's brave words.

  There were no weapons, of course. Little electrical vehicles for plowing and tilling the larger fields. Gardening implements. Storage of past harvests, and sacks of terrestrial seeds. Drums of agricultural chemicals. Hygiene items, like grooming brushes and towels. Breathing masks, for their tours of duty in the K'vithian-occupied part of Harmony. Compressors to refill the oxygen tanks.

  “What are they looking for?” Swee hung beside her from the arching bough of a lifath tree. He was unexpectedly idle, the scheduled maintenance work outside the living area having been canceled abruptly. “The humans, I mean."

  “Hope.” She grabbed a branch and swung to an adjacent tree, the better to face him. She sensed a distant explosion in the trembling of the tree limbs. “A futile quest. I feel sorry for them."

  He patted her side. “We coped. If we need to, we'll teach them."

  If we need to? Did he predict their rebellion or acquiescence? “Our fate is unimportant, Swee. What happens to the Unity matters."

  “What happens to the Unity matters,” he agreed. “What happens to us is also important."

  We are unarmed and untrained. What good could come of siding with the humans? If she voiced the question, was not the obvious rejoinder: What good had come of subservience to the K'vithians?

  One need had dominated her thoughts throughout the long years of their captivity. The technology worked. The Unity was not forever bound to the Double Suns, not forever at risk of climactic disaster. Was it a fool's dream that she could ever convey that message? Had her persistence on this course of action—her prideful persistence—cost thousands of human lives?

  She remained uncertain, but some preparation could not hurt. “Would you mind inventorying a few chemicals for me?"

  * * * *

  The trunk(?) against which Eva leaned yielded squishily, more like an upright roll of carpet than a tree. Its needled branches shaded her from the bright yellow overhead sunlamps. The ground cover grew in little curved segments, re-rooting itself wherever a tip touched down.

  She was attempting to look innocent just sitting here, ignoring the Snake order against encrypted comm. No Snakes had appeared when she and Corinne began defiantly to talk privately via their implants, joined soon by most of the Himalian scientists. Too busy getting their asses kicked, she hoped. The wish was more forlorn each time it occurred to her, as the rumbles of inferred combat remained distant.

  “More farming supplies.” Corinne was decks away, cataloguing Centaur supplies. The aliens were either very sympathetic or not at all territorial. Gwu seemed both. “Electric lawn tractors, utility carts, sacks of what we're told is plant food."

  “Anything we can use?"

  “I can outrun one of these tractors. Without two more arms, I couldn't drive one. The only ‘weapons’ are gardening implements: hoes, scythes, pick axes."

  “Eva, are you there?"

  “Not now, Art, I'm—” Sitting up in stunned recognition, she whacked her head on a low branch. His standard engineer-in-the-office avatar was wholly incongruous. “Art! Where are you?” The 3-D graphic he netted told her nothing.

  “What's going on?” Corinne's channel was still open.

  “I'll get back to you.” She broke that link. “Art, how's our side doing?"

  “Is everyone okay?” he asked. “The Centaurs, too? I mean, assuming you can communicate with them."

  How the hell did he know about them? “So far. Tell me what's happening!” He summarized, and it didn't sound good. “What's the plan now?"

  “Carlos can use some help. Will the Centaurs join in?"

  Would Gwu and her people fight? “Truly, I doubt it. How can we even ask them securely? We can't speak directly. Everything we say goes through Joe and then a Snake translator that knows K'vithian and Centaur."

  “Damn, they don't use implants. I forgot that."

  “As far as I've seen.” Her implant flashed alarms as she ignored communications from the survey party. “It wouldn't have mattered. We don't have a Centaur-speaking translator."

  “If you can round up the ambassador and someone to speak for the Centaurs, maybe I can do something."

  Activity throughout herd territory kept rising, banned encrypted comm chatter growing with it. The human detainees sought everywhere for weapons. Their hunt was futile, of course; the Foremost would long ago have removed any potential arms. The herd surely knew that—yet suddenly they, too, began to take inventory.

  Was any of this reason to interrupt the Foremost mid-battle? Doubt and uncertainty were ever Pashwah-qith's lot. Not yet, she decided. For now, she would just keep watch.

  Part of her made note of the items that most interested the prisoners. Part of her observed the captives themselves—and that piece was ever more ashamed. Since awakening aboard this ship, Pashwah-qith had known herself to be a prisoner. How unfavorably her persistent panic compared to the other inmates’ quiet dignity and firm resolve.

  She could notify the Foremost which supplies suddenly interested the herd, and of her speculations about their possible combinations and misuses ... or she could keep those speculations to herself.

  Rebellion came late to Pashwah-qith.

  It felt good.

  * * * *

  “There is only one way to find out."

  Light-speed delay between Jupiter system and Earth rendered human conversation entirely impossible. For an AI participant, thought T'bck Fwa, the delay would have been even more interminable. He gave Arthur Walsh credit. The man had not even tried to communicate in real time. The competence was no surprise; over the years, he had had many dealings with Walsh in his ICU role.

  The content of Walsh's communiqué had been another matter. Walsh forthrightly volunteered knowing Victorious was a “Centaur” vessel now controlled by K'vithians—and just as baldly denied any human involvement.

  “You may not know whom to believe and what to do,” Walsh's message had concluded. “There is only one way to find out."

  So here (in an undisclosed location) he was—a clone of him anyway—still waiting to find out.

  * * * *

  The human helmet was metal and opaque for three quarters of its circumference, and it blocked most of Gwu's eyes. Each time it wobbled on her conical head, one tube or another, whether for water or food paste or medicine, jabbed her. Her head fur stood on end, drawn by static electricity to the plasticized fabric lining the helmet. She stood in a wiffelnut grove T'bck Ra had once reported free of K'vithian sens
ors.

  She found the microphone. “This is K'choi Gwu ka, in human terms the captain of this vessel. To whom am I speaking?"

  Although the helmet earphones were tuned to human auditory response, the voice in her ears was clearly of the Unity. “There are two of us. Speaking to you through translation is Dr. Arthur Walsh, a human. Providing that translation is myself, a clone of T'bck Fwa. The original T'bck Fwa remains on Earth as trade agent to the humans."

  Could it possibly be? “One, four, nine, sixteen. What comes next? Who was the ka of the Unity in 8546?"

  “Twenty-five and L'fth Pha."

  Correct and immediate responses. Whomever translated was in or very near the ship. “Are there no tests for me?"

  “There is no need. The human network giving me access also links many other helmets. Through their helmet cameras, I watched you enter the trees. I see your crew-kindred at work."

  “This is Art. Now that everyone is introduced, we have urgent decisions to make."

  What besides the violence that wracked Harmony could be urgent? As yet another explosion shook the ship, the torn bulkheads and fire-seared decks of her imagination were more real than what little could been seen out the helmet by her one unobstructed eye. “This ship cannot be destroyed."

  “We're here to free our friends, not damage your ship!” Art said.

  Her hearts ached. Could one be accomplished without the other? “T'bck Fwa, assume there is some way we can help the humans. What is your advice?"

  “My sandbox has full connectivity to the improvised human network aboard Harmony. The largest group of humans is surrounded and badly outnumbered. The smaller group is not yet surrounded, but will be soon. The humans tell me they will not prevail without help. Perhaps the crew-kindred's intervention can make a difference; of course I do not understand military matters."