by J. S. Fields
The pooled energy grew bigger. Unwieldy. The girl struggled to maintain her control. With the laser beam disintegrated, the girl had nowhere to channel the raw energy, so she drew it into herself.
That knocked their link back to the thinnest of threads. Unsure whether she should be relieved or terrified, Neek watched an electric corona build around the child until the energy began to seep out of her and consume the console with thin, cracking tendrils. Panic overtook the child’s face as her body slumped, her control over the energy waning. There was a brief complete stillness in which Neek hoped everything had managed to dissipate back inside the Pledge, before the console exploded, sending bits of metal, glass, and plastic all over the cockpit.
The blast slammed everyone to the floor.
“What happened?” Nicholas slid down the turret ladder, teetering and choking on the acrid taste of the air.
Neek coughed several times and moved away from the child, hoping she hadn’t crushed her. “You okay, Yorden? Nicholas?” she asked. The pilot raised a hand to her face and slowly slid her fingers over its surface, noting the small shards of diamond sticking out in various places. Rivulets of stuk trickled from each cut.
Yorden groaned and coughed heavily as he sat up. “I think I’m fine,” he responded. “Most of the shrapnel missed me. Thanks for getting in the way.”
“The kid,” Neek croaked, pulling her seeping fingertips off her face and gently rolling the girl onto her back. Their eyes met, and the girl tried to smile reassuringly.
Are the Risalians still attacking? she asked.
No. And you’re bleeding. Blood seeped from the girl’s nostrils and down her cheeks, running onto the floor. Neek wrapped her arm around the girl’s back and gently set her upright. The blood flow from her sinuses increased, and Neek ripped off a portion of her sleeve and held it to the child’s face.
Nicholas squatted down next to the girl, his eyes watering. “Hey,” he said. “Look.” On her right cheek, a bruise was spreading from the side of her nose almost to her ear, with the tip reaching just under her lower lip.
“Fuck.” Neek whispered. All three watched together as a second, larger triangular bruise began forming under her other eye. The small triangle that had been there before was soon engulfed by the purple stain.
Just some blood, the girl told Neek. Sometimes if you push too hard, capillaries break. They heal quickly.
Capillaries…cellulose. Neek shook her head. I can’t process this right now. Just…are you okay? Pain anywhere?
The girl shook her head. The only pain I have is coming from you.
Yorden’s voice interrupted. “Ship’s dead in space. Again. I just rerouted our remaining power to gravity, air systems, and containment foam over the breaches.” He looked pointedly at Neek. “Want to tell me what just happened? Looked like some wicked god magic from here.”
Neek turned to look at the open seam near the exploded console, which was slowly filling with blue mesh foam. “No. Just…science, I think. Telekinesis is common enough in the Systems, but this—this was a whole new level of weird.”
“Who cares why it happened?” Nicholas asked slowly, his words slightly jumbled. “We’re completely vulnerable. If the Risalians shoot us again, we’re toast. What are we going to do?”
“We wait,” Yorden responded. “Have a chat about what exactly Ran was trying to create in our little stowaway here and hope someone comes along for us before another Risalian ship comes for them.”
Chapter 8: Risalian Cutter 223
Results from the repeated measures one-way ANOVA found a significant decrease (45% ± 0.05%; P<0.0001) in andal tree occurrence from the forestry survey of 25 BA to the most recent survey performed in 220 AA (Fig 1). This study changed the error structure to account for time. These results indicate that andal coverage in Neek forests has decreased, rather than increased, over time. The authors hypothesize that technology developed during the ‘Ardulan’ time period may have played a role in this decreased production, as the recorded systematic genetic and physiological manipulation of the plant was proven to be detrimental to long-term growth in laboratory trees (Forest Reports 219 AA). The trend in the data suggests that wild andal tree growth will continue to diminish over the next forty years and that, potentially, in fifty years the only andal trees left on Neek will be those commercially grown.
—Excerpt from “Trends in wild andal growth in Neek forests,” published via peer-review in the Neek Journal of Science and Technology, 222 AA
“Report!” Ran demanded as xe entered the bridge.
“The laser disintegrated, Captain,” a second responded. Xe tapped the interface in front of hir to display a diagram of the ship as Ran ground hir heel into the metal flooring below. “Something started a chain reaction in the cellulose bindings, targeting the amorphous regions in the microfibrils and…the hemicellulose coating was stripped. The cellulose broke apart into glucose monomers.”
Ran focused the diagram on the laser unit. Blinking purple lights highlighted damaged areas, and chemical formulas for cellulose appeared. Cellulose tech wasn’t that complex, but the cellulose harvested from andal trees could behave…erratically. The extra boost it gave to electronics made up for the unpredictability, but this was ridiculous. Hydrogen bonds didn’t just snap, and microfibrils didn’t just unwind.
“Let’s pretend for a moment, shall we, that what you are talking about is even possible to do outside of a laboratory. We have other weapons, including at least fifteen laser turrets, three of which contain refracting lasers and all of which are computer automated. We also have an Ardulan gunner to interface with the computers. They can’t all be broken.”
“When the first laser disintegrated, it appears that the whole weapons system went offline, and parts of it may have unbound as well. The tech Ardulan is on repairs, but fixing an entire ship system…even an Ardulan can’t fix an entire ship. Apologies, Captain. We estimate at least three hours before main weapons are operational if we don’t have to replace every single part. There is no way we will get the entire ship fixed without returning to Risal.”
Ran winced as memories from the Reeducation Center xe had been sent to after losing the girl the first time dredged to the surface.
Harsh green lighting. No view of water. Endless vegetables. Endless lectures. Endless assessments. Toiling in the intense heat of an andal plantation on one of Risal’s moons, the leaves wilting in the poor atmosphere. Memorization of so many genetic sequences and cellulosic chemistry formulas that Ran could still see them all, every time xe closed hir eyes. They layered on top of one another, intermingling, sometimes bound so intrinsically with one another that xe couldn’t sort out which was a base pair and which a microfibril. No chance to communicate with hir offspring. No chance to communicate with the Cell-Tal board. No access to hir experiments.
Ran’s hand shook. Xe looked over hir shoulder at the large, wide panel that was nestled in the corner of the bridge. Images of waves of deep-blue water crashed over the surface. Ran calmed. Hir head cleared. Xe had things under control. Xe would not go back to Risal empty-handed. Ran swiped the schematic from the screen and queried the computer. Text began to scroll in tight packets, just slowly enough to be read once before being replaced with new information.
…power. Systems currently at 75% functionality. Suspected abnormalities within main housing as well as secondary systems. Housing experiencing loss of structure conducive to structural integrity damage. Primary analysis shows removal of hemicellulosic binding and fractures along amorphous cellulose. Repair time unknown. Crew assigned to repair duty: fifteen Risalian thirds and one tech Ardulan…
Ran tapped the screen and queried the weapon status. The text changed quickly.
Minor damage: two hundred forty-seven fuses, four empty charges, twelve Risalian injuries.
Major damage: Unable to quantify. Larger components required for weapons operation no longer exist in useable form. Electrical harness for weapons system offline.<
br />
“Fantastic,” Ran muttered to hirself. “So, even if we could repair the weapons, we’d have no way to power them.” The captain smashed hir fist into the console and then queried the computer for information on Mercy’s Pledge.
Estimated time to repair propulsion: one hour
Estimated time to repair main laser: three hours
Estimated time to repair secondary lasers: no secondary lasers
Estimated time to full electrical repairs: thirty hours
Estimated time to complete all repairs: two hundred thirty-three hours
At least the Pledge was damaged more than the cutter. That was good news. Feeling more confident, Ran called out to the bridge crew. “Get as many crewmates as we have with technical training to the damaged weapons immediately. We’ll build them from scratch if we have to. The rest of you, head to Electrical and see if you can’t get the harness working.”
Ran watched the crew hurriedly flow out the two main doors to the bridge. As the second began to follow, Ran grabbed hir by the arm and drew hir aside. The second’s neck slits tinged purple immediately. “Second,” Ran breathed, trying to temper hir voice. “Whatever our tech Ardulan is doing, she is not doing it fast enough. Why don’t you see if you can’t motivate her a little? I’ll deal with the ones here.”
The flustered second saluted by placing two fingers on hir right temple, spun around, and sprinted off the bridge.
That left Ran alone, save for the two Ardulans assigned to the area. Just sitting there, Ran fumed, like nothing at all has happened. Except things had gone horribly wrong. Again. Ran had only wanted to damage the Pledge enough for towing, not blow it and hir own cutter apart. Still, at least the Pledge’s crew still lived. There was no way Ran could justify killing a Journey youth, no matter how badly the Markin Council wanted the Ardulan progeny. Captain Kuebrich had insured his safety with innocence, and that in itself was more infuriating than hir failure to retrieve the girl.
Ran’s hand shook, but this time xe did not hide it. There was no one left on the bridge to see, no one except the mindless pieces of living equipment. There had to be a malfunction in one of them. This failure did not lie with the Risalians. Only equipment could perform so poorly.
Ran walked slowly over to one of the Ardulans and stared at the side of his head. “Where did Cell-Tal go wrong with you?” xe breathed. The captain nudged the Ardulan’s leg with hir toe. “Too stupid to talk. Too mindless to react. Another broken piece of machinery on this poor cutter.”
Ran paused, considering. A faulty Ardulan was dangerous under the best of circumstances. They could misfire, even shut down an entire ship as their mind entered the mental tangle of age. A malfunctioning Ardulan could easily account for a stray shot hitting the Pledge. A malfunctioning Ardulan would have no qualms about killing a Journey youth. A malfunctioning computer system, which is how it would have to be spun to the media, could easily be forgiven.
Ran smiled then—a wide, toothy smile that stopped hir hand from shaking and caused hir to straighten. There would have to be a consequence, of course. Faulty Ardulans couldn’t be allowed to live—they were too dangerous. It was only logical to destroy a dangerous piece of equipment after it malfunctioned. After all, the safety of the Systems was at stake.
The screen in front of Ran flashed an update. A laser—a secondary refracting laser that barely had enough capacity to burn through metal—was online. Whatever the second was doing to motivate the tech Ardulan was certainly effective.
“Gunner!” Ran barked as xe walked over. The Ardulan turned and fixed her dark, empty eyes on Ran. She was third don—Ran could tell from the small creases around her eyes and mouth. She was also battle-trained, having served the past fifteen years on a border patrol ship that frequently encountered Mmnnuggl pirates. She was certainly old enough to misstep. Her mistake in firing on the Pledge would be so easy to explain, her death unquestionable. If Ran was going to spin this tale, however, it would need to be believable. When Ardulans went bad, they went in spectacular fashion, often causing several misfires in a row. That meant the Pledge needed a few more shots in her.
“Fire at Mercy’s Pledge. Aim for the cargo hold farthest from the cockpit and hold the beam so the Pledge can’t repair. I don’t particularly want bodies, but if they occur, I want them intact, if at all possible.”
The Ardulan turned back to the console and placed her hands on top. Ran looked to the viewscreen, eagerly waiting for the laser to materialize. Images of a suffocated Yorden, eyes wide in surprise and fingertips bloody from trying to repair what would be a persistent hole in the hull, danced across Ran’s vision. If that happened, at least xe wouldn’t have to put up with any more of Captain Kuebrich’s smugness. Seeing the Terran at spaceports was bad enough. Having to entrust him with Cell-Tal’s delicate transport jobs because the Markin trusted him over a Risalian courier was entirely different. He was Terran, for andal’s sake.
Blood pounded in hir neck. The thought of Yorden as space-flotsam was really appealing.
One heartbeat…then a dozen…then two dozen. The laser didn’t fire.
Ran growled. Was the gunner actually malfunctioning? Her fingers remained on the console but lacked movement. Her eyes were unblinking, staring straight ahead.
Ran slapped the back of her head. “Fire!”
The Ardulan made no indication she heard the captain, remaining still.
Why did all the equipment have to be broken? What sort of feedback loop had that idiot girl caused? A third don Ardulan was fully capable of bypassing any minor damage that might exist within the targeting system. This particular Ardulan had an exemplary record of service on border ships. For her to fail now… Ran seethed.
“Try again.” The command was smooth. Controlled. Getting mad at a tool accomplished nothing. Xe had had only a small hand in the genetics of this particular Ardulan. Maybe the genetic code had been muddled somewhere along the way.
This time, the fingers moved. Commands scrolled across the screen in front of her. The captain dug hir nails into the shoulder of the Ardulan. Pain was a motivator even in the dullest of animals. Even the lumbering titha grazed quicker when faced with its own demise. The thin skin broke easily, and blood pooled around hir nails—bright-red drops that contrasted with the dried, maroon splotches that lay splattered on the console and the female’s thighs.
“Faster,” Ran whispered into her ear. “I know what you are capable of.”
More commands scrolled past, but the laser remained dormant.
Slowly, Ran placed hir free hand into a pocket, pulling out a long knife with a curve at the tip. Xe caressed the intricately carved andal wood handle. “My Dulan knife,” xe whispered to the female. “Awarded to every new captain at their graduation ceremony.” Xe traced the flat of the blade against the Ardulan’s cheek. “I have had extensive training. I never did think I would have to use it.”
The captain continued to trace the blade from the female’s cheek to her neck and then slowly down her spine. Xe stopped just above the hip bones and brought the knife to tip. “Fire,” xe commanded steadily, voice still in a whisper.
A whimper came then from the Ardulan. She did not turn her head, but her fingers continued to move with increasing speed, dancing over the console. Ran double-checked the laser status on another monitor. The laser was still working. The Ardulan was not. Xe didn’t have time for faulty equipment.
“Fine.” Ran braced one hand on the female’s shoulder and used hir other to make a plunge-and-swipe motion, severing the spinal column. Blood soaked the captain’s hand and sleeve as the Ardulan slumped to the floor. Ran looked over at the male Ardulan, who, as xe suspected, was still just sitting at the communication console, staring at the viewscreen with no signs of recognition. He didn’t even sniff, Ran noticed, as the bridge filled with the sweet smell of wet blood.
“Remove it,” xe commanded. “Then bring up the secondary gunner from storage.” Eyes vacant, the male got up, picked up the body, a
nd left the bridge. A trail of bright-red blood—both his and the female’s—trailed in his wake.
Chapter 9: Mercy’s Pledge
“Ardulum? Be serious, Governor. I think we’re well beyond such childish thought in this day and age. Although I would appreciate it if you would not share that sentiment with my wife.”
—Overheard conversation between the president of Neek and the governor of N’lln, 225 AA
“You’re insane, Yorden, and this is going nowhere. Ardulans can talk. We have transcriptions. They had one of four Talents. They were marginally telekinetic, insofar as they could integrate within their Talent structure, but that’s it. They sure as hell couldn’t manipulate cellulose.” Neek angrily kicked the leg of an empty chair next to her, sending it onto its side. The resulting clatter was loud, too loud in the echo of the galley as the crew continued to toss around theories.
Yorden bent down and righted the chair, groaning as he did so. “Would you suspend your persistent disbelief long enough to have a conversation? We’re stranded until someone picks up our distress beacon, so we might as well be civil.”
“Captain.” Nicholas held out a pocket communicator. “I uploaded the Pledge’s contacts into my personal comm, but it says we don’t have any contacts currently in the Alusian or Minoran Systems. There’s no chance of us being found before life support gives out.” When Yorden crossed his arms instead of taking the device, Nicholas frowned. “I’m not a magician or Ardulan or whatever. I can’t just make a ship appear.” He rapped the comm against his knee and then brightened. “My family has legal contacts throughout the Systems. Want me to inquire?”