Gibraltar Earth
Page 35
She chewed on her bottom lip, unhappy with the conclusion toward which her brain was scrambling. “You are right, of course.”
“Damned right, I am right. Now, let us have no more silly suggestions that we allow Sar-Say to compare notes with our hosts. Agreed?”
She nodded.
“Good. Let us rejoin our guide. He seems curious about what we are doing with our heads stuck together, whispering like a couple of school girls.”
“Yes, sir.”
While she, the captain, and their Voldar’ik guide continued the tour of the station agricultural spaces, Lisa considered Landon’s comments. For the life of her, she could spot no flaw in his logic and that depressed her even more than thinking about Sar-Say’s fate. The truth was that despite the vastness of space, the Earth was not that difficult to find, not if one merely had a few simple clues to its location.
It seemed there was no solution to the dilemma beyond total isolation. If they were to remain safe from the Broa, they would have to dig themselves a hole, climb in, and pull it in on top of them. There could be no contact with any species of the Sovereignty. Even a hint of their existence and the Broa would come looking for them. In fact, their presence in this system might well have put the human race at risk already.
It seemed that Mikhail Vasloff and his Terra Nostra fanatics had been right all along. It was time for humanity to pull in its horns. The universe was too dangerous a place for them to bumble about in.
She continued to mull over the consequences of what they had learned of the Broa and their empire. The more she pondered, the more depressed she became. Her companions found her very quiet for the rest of the tour.
#
Two days later, Mark came up behind Lisa and gave her a hug.
“What is that for?” she asked, still despondent over her conversation with the captain.
“I have to go back to the ship,” he said, letting his hands move playfully over her form. She enjoyed the attention and molded her body to his for a few seconds. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. Out of memory again?”
“You got it. I will transfer this load into the Whale’s computer and come back for a fresh batch. Anything I can get you?”
“No. I have everything I need.”
“And if Sar-Say asks about a certain subject?”
She frowned. It had not taken Mark long to cajole her into talking about what it was that was bothering her. They had had a long session of pillow talk the night before. Somehow, lying in the dark, cuddling with him, urgently whispering in his ear, all of those actions had been therapeutic for her. She had not even been shocked when she discovered that Mark agreed with the captain. No matter what else, they could not allow Sar-Say access to the Voldar’ik, or any other aliens for that matter.
She was still depressed about their discoveries and what they implied for the future of humanity, but she was beginning to snap back. Her natural resilience told her that things could not be as bad as she imagined. There had to be a solution other than running home with their tails tucked between their legs. Unfortunately, she had no idea what that solution was.
Finally, she shook her head. “No, I don’t want you to upset him. Besides, it is only fair that I give him the bad news myself. How long will you be gone?”
“A couple of hours. See you tonight. What exciting thing have you planned for today?”
“I am supporting Mr. Vasloff. He seems to get off on this negotiation stuff. He has Dravv offering about ten percent more for the energy modules than he did yesterday. Apparently, we are demanding his first and third born in exchange for our modules, to hear him tell it. I think Mikhail missed his calling when he went into political agitation. He would have made a hell of a good used-groundcar salesman!”
After a few more seconds holding his woman, Mark reluctantly let go and gathered up his computer. It was so packed with information that he thought it ought to have more inertia than it did as he slipped his arms through the straps and made sure that it was secure on his back. He checked the rest of his equipment, then opened the hatch, and floated out into the public corridor beyond.
He enjoyed these short trips back to the ship. Not only did they get him away from the computer screen; they allowed him to see something of his alien surroundings. The first two times he had made the trip, one of the laconic Voldar’ik guides had accompanied him. This was his first attempt to find his way on his own.
A hundred meters down the corridor; he came to a large volume in the form of an open dodecahedron-shaped compartment. The volume was more than one hundred meters across. It was light and airy, and reminded him of what the interior of a hollow golf ball would look like. As the corridor in which he floated opened up into the large space, he halted his progress and considered his next move.
Spacers in the holo epics who encountered such interior volumes invariably kicked off one wall and sailed freely through the air to the opposite side. In practice, it was dangerous to fly free in large enclosed spaces. Human beings had not evolved in microgravity, and among many other shortcomings, lacked the depth perception needed to properly judge distance. If he pushed off too hard, he would slam into the opposite wall with enough speed to break something; if too lightly, he would spend minutes suspended in midair, slowly tumbling.
Neither prospect appealed to him. Then there was the problem that while in flight he would be out of control. He could just see himself caroming off Voldar’ik pedestrians, thrashing the air as he tried to grab anything with which to anchor himself. Rather than risk embarrassing himself in front of aliens, Mark decided to take the long way around.
Around the periphery of the open space were the ever-present Voldar’ik mobility nets. The aliens used their tentacles to “roll” along the nets, spinning slowly and efficiently through space. He grabbed a handful of webbing and pulled himself along the curved wall. It would take several minutes to reach the corridor that was his destination, but he would suffer no collisions in the process.
Occasionally aboard Zal’trel Station, they had caught sight of beings from species other than the Voldar’ik. Mark noted that one such alien seemed to be on an intercept course with him. The being was a big, blue, furry fellow and he moved across the netting with the skill of one who had spent a lot of time in microgravity. When it became clear that the being was indeed converging on his location, Mark halted and waited for him.
“You are one of the Vulcan traders?” the blue alien asked in trade talk. “The one known as He Who Operates Computers?”
Mark was about to respond, “You have the better of me,” when he realized that he lacked the vocabulary. He satisfied himself with, “I am He Who Operates Computers. My personal label is Mark Rykand. Who are you?”
“I am Effril. I would speak with you, Mark Rykand.”
Mark hung from the net like a dangling Christmas tree ornament and studied the stranger. At least, he was constructed on a familiar pattern. He possessed two arms, two legs, and a head. Recognizable hands surmounted the arms, although they had six fingers each; and the legs ended in club-like pads that could fairly be called feet. The alien had a short tail attached about where a tail should be, and his head approximated a sphere, with two eyes, a slit nostril, and a mouth about where their human counterparts were located. The being’s teeth were sharp and pointed, the mark of a carnivore; and his ruby-red eyes gave him a ferocious look.
“What should we speak about?” Mark asked, trying not to let the big blue alien’s appearance intimidate him.
“Matters of mutual value. I would adjourn to yonder refreshment area if you are willing to speak.”
“Very well. I have a few minutes to spare before I must return to my ship. Let us speak of that which you wish.”
Mark found himself led to a large rectangular compartment where Voldar’ik gained sustenance from their bottle fruit. They did so by placing the fruit in their navel orifices and sucking on them until the skins were deflated husks. The Voldar’
ik kept their feeding areas as dark as humans kept their expensive restaurants, possibly for similar reasons. The other members of their shore party had attended several “dinners” with potential Voldar’ik clients. He had stayed in their quarters and surfed the aliens’ information net.
When the blue alien anchored his feet to the deck in front of one of the pedestals on which bottle fruit were placed before consumption, Mark followed suit. The stranger made a gesture that Mark did not understand and said, “It is a shame that these tripod-sitters have nothing for us to eat or drink, or else I would purchase you a libation.”
Mark gestured to his microgravity canteen. “I carry my own libation.”
A clear bottle appeared in the alien’s hand from his belt pouch. “As do I. Shall we drink to one another’s health and prosperity?”
Mark smiled at the toast so close to the traditional “Live long and prosper.” Had the situation been different, he would have liked to travel the Sovereignty to see how widespread was the custom of drinking together. His limited experience — first Sar-Say and now this blue fellow — indicated that it was nearly universal among thinking beings.
“My time is short,” Mark said after sipping water from the canteen. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand that you people come from the other side of Civilization.”
“You understand correctly.”
“I am a trader like yourself. I would discuss an exchange of commercial information for our mutual benefit.”
“What sort of information?”
“The local systems in which your people have sold goods, lists of that which sells best in each system, customs that help the exchange of value between sapient beings. I will, of course, supply you with what information I possess.”
“Yes, that would be good,” Mark answered. In reality, of course, humanity had no such information to share. This being had no way of knowing that, of course. In addition, he presented them with another avenue for gaining information about the Sovereignty. If itinerate traders here were anything like those at home, they probably did not report everything they knew to the overlords. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. You can begin by telling me what sort of being you are. I am afraid that I don’t recognize your type.”
The blue being took another long drink of whatever it was that he had in his flask. A whiff convinced Mark that it was not water. The blue alien looked at Mark with ruby-rid eyes and said, “You must be from a distant system indeed not to recognize a Taff trader when you see one.”
#
Mark blinked and waited for the sudden buzzing in his ears to dissipate. The danger signals in his brain had begun ringing at the alien’s revelation. He thought furiously about how to ask the question that most needed answering. Luckily, his past two weeks of practiced indirection served him in good stead.
When he spoke, it was with the caution of someone who has discovered that he has been strolling through a minefield for some indeterminate period.
“You are a Taff? I have heard of your kind, of course. I was under the impression that you looked different. Is there another species that uses the same verbal label to describe itself?”
“I know of none. We Taff travel all over civilization to trade, so I suspect that I would have heard of it if it existed. What did you think we Taff looked like?”
“It’s not important. I am happy to meet you now. Tell me more about this deal between us.”
“It is our custom to get to know those with whom we would do business before beginning negotiations. Do you have the same custom?”
“We do.”
“Then perhaps you will tell me something of this Shangri-La system that you inhabit, and why I have never heard of it.”
“Certainly. However, my people do not like to brag about their accomplishments before giving their guests a chance to extol their own virtues.”
The blue Taff emitted a sound like a snort. He followed it with, “Looking to take my measure first, are you? That is acceptable. Let me tell you about my visit to…”
The alien proved garrulous. He told of his own exploits in a system named “Srenthon,” if Mark heard him right. He was a trader who gloried in obtaining “value” from merchandise that another species considered nearly worthless. His story reminded Mark of the sort of tale one traveling salesman would tell another. When he was finished, Mark responded with a story of his own, largely fictional, about how his ship had found itself hopping from stargate to stargate in search of a bargain. The only system he mentioned by name was Vith, which was from where the Ruptured Whale had been sailing when the Broan Avenger had jumped it.
Somehow, Effril got him to talking about their arrival aboard Zal’trel station. Mark did not think he had been steered onto the subject, but the Taff had the air of someone who was expert at such things. The two of them each drank out of their mutual canteens, and if Effril knew that Mark was drinking water, he showed no signs.
Soon Mark found himself relating their first meeting with Zha, and how the Voldar’ik greeter had tried to charge them one-twelfth of their cargo as a port fee. This brought another fit of snorting from the trader.
“These Voldar’ik know value when they smell it,” Effril agreed. “What did the master trader do?”
“He told Zha to bring back the ferry so that we could return to our ship and leave this wicked place.”
“Good for him. We traders must resist these extortionists wherever we find them. Then what happened?”
“Then we made an offering to the local Broan master and discovered that there are none such on Klys’kra’t at the moment.”
The snorting noise came again, this time louder and longer. Effril finished by saying, “It would be a poor overlord indeed who had this miserable pile of excrement as his sole possession. No offense intended to our hosts or to you, honorable Mark Rykand.”
“Why would I take offense at your description of Klys’kra’t?”
“My impression is that your own world is not very central to Civilization. I would say that Shangri-La also possesses but a single stargate and that you do not get many visitors.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The fact that my own species judges your world to be unworthy for trading … no offense. However, if you had anything of value, you would have seen my kind before now. Also, if you were a major world, you would not have had to send an expedition to the opposite end of Civilization to look for species with which to exchange value.”
“I admit that we are small,” Mark said, relieved at the trader’s misconception. “However, we are growing.”
“I will wager that you do not have an overlord of your own in residence.”
“That is also true. In fact, I am young and I have never seen a Broa.”
“Count yourself lucky, cub.”
“You have experience dealing with them?”
“More than any sane trader would like.”
“How are they to deal with?”
“They like their privacy. They also do not bargain. They will tell you what value they are willing to give for your goods, and you accept their offer. Sometimes you come out ahead, sometimes behind. But you do not bargain, not if you want your ship left in one piece.”
Mark took a deep breath and asked the question that he had been leading up to for much of the past half-hour. “What do they look like? I hear they are ferocious beings who tower over ordinary species.”
“Not at all,” Effril said. “In fact, they are only half my size. One should not let size influence one when dealing with the Broa, however. When they are around, there is no disputing who is the more powerful.”
“I believe that I must be the victim of my brood mates. Please describe a Broa so that I will know an overlord if I see one.”
“You will know. Trust me. As for their appearance, as I said: They are small beings, usually brown in color and covered with fur. They look a great deal like you, but smaller and with hands like mine —
that is, six appendages rather then your five. Their ears are smaller than yours, and protrude more toward the front. They have a muzzle of sorts, with rows of breathing holes along each side. It is their eyes that one notices when dealing with them. They are yellow…”
#
Chapter Thirty Nine
Sar-Say was frightened. He hadn’t been this alarmed since that long ago day when an oversize biped floated into his compartment aboard this very ship and kidnapped him to a star beyond the edge of Civilization. Something had gone terribly wrong on the Voldar’ik station and he knew not what. It was the not knowing that gnawed at his brain. If only they would tell him what had happened, he would meet his fate with some degree of equanimity. As things stood, the only thing that stopped him from rolling into a ball and retreating from reality was that his captors were watching him via their holo-cameras. Therefore, instead of withdrawing into himself, he hung from the overhead and turned his back to the camera as he contemplated the blank wall of his prison.
Things had been going so well! The humans used the hints he had provided to seek out Civilization. True, they found a system other than the one he had intended, but they had returned him to his home, which was the point of the exercise. He assisted them to make contact with the species in this system and for fourteen sleep periods, matters seemed to be progressing satisfactorily. Then, without warning, something had gone awry!
First came word over the command circuit that the shore party was returning to the ship. There were no explanations, no elaboration. One moment the universe had been in its place, the next, Captain Landon issued the terse announcement, “We are coming home. Make all preparations for departure.”
Sar-Say’s kind was susceptible to heart problems and he thought one or both of his hearts would stop when he heard those words. Then his monitoring circuit had gone dead and he found himself totally isolated. His cabin aboard the Hraal (in his mind, he still called the ship by its original name) did not even have a viewport to let him look outside. For more than four human hours, no one answered his calls, nor had the guard responded when he pounded on the hatch.