Her name was Edna Edith Rogers, and she'd been in space for more than forty years, starting as an assistant power tech and working her way up to master.
A lot of interesting and sometimes funny things had happened during that forty years, and each one had been crafted into a well-told story.
It seemed that Captain Edna had been married to a wonderfully crazy man named Harry, had made and lost three different fortunes, and had accumulated a dozen college degrees, including ones in such wildly different subjects as law, xeno-biology, accounting, and home economics.
And so it was that Lando found himself eating freshly baked coffee cake, laughing at Captain Edna's stories, and worrying at the same time. They had escaped from Pylax but were far from free. Somehow, thanks to his troubles with the law and Cap's drunken chatter, their situation had gone from bad to worse.
What good is an alien drifter if you can't sell it? And if you did manage to sell it what about the attention that would generate?
These questions and many more went unanswered as the days passed and the belt approached. Under normal conditions they would have been extremely reluctant to provide the drifter's coordinates. In this case, however, they had very little choice. They planned to move the ship the moment that Captain Edna was gone. They'd already moved her once, and there was no reason to think they couldn't do it again. True, they had a tug the first time out, but they knew more about the ship now, and Lando felt sure that it would obey their commands.
The drifter was hidden just inside the edge of the belt a few hundred miles sunward of gate sixteen. Lando watched the asteroids as Captain Edna conned her ship past the gate and skimmed the edge of the belt. They were beautiful in their own way—ancient chunks of rock and metal, tumbling along, their roughly textured surfaces rotating through the sunlight.
Any other ship might've been in grave danger from the asteroids but not the drifter. It had spent hundreds, maybe even thousands of years inside the belt, all without so much as a scratch. So far as they knew anyway.
No, the ship had defenses against asteroids, and these became rather apparent as Captain Edna guided her vessel between the outermost roids and open space.
The control room was rather small, with barely enough room for Lando in the co-pilot's seat, and Della behind. Row upon row of indicator lights glowed green, amber, and red, and lit Edna's face from below.
In spite of her passengers' previous descriptions, the jobber was surprised by what she saw.
The drifter was long, longer than the largest liner that Edna had ever seen, and twice as big around. Not only that, but it was slightly luminescent, as if lit from within.
And where human ships would have surface installations like weapons blisters, antenna arrays, and solar panels, this one had large green blobs. They clung to the hull like clumps of fungi. As Edna watched she saw one of them detach itself and race outward to touch a nearby asteroid.
That's what it looked like anyway, but her passengers assured the jobber that the "touch" had force behind it, enough force to keep the asteroids away and create its own safety zone.
Then another blob shot forth, only this one came straight at her ship, and hit with a considerable amount of force. The ship rocked back and forth and some alarms went off.
Captain Edna looked worried. "Will it push us away?"
Lando shook his head. "No, it's checking us out. Watch what happens next."
Green light flooded the control room. It paused, slid the length of the ship, and disappeared.
Captain Edna looked at her readouts. There was nothing but snow. "That light came through solid durasteel!"
Lando smiled. "Scary, isn't it?"
Edna glanced at the screens again. "It sure is. But beautiful too. No wonder they want you. That thing's worth millions."
Lando checked the woman's expression, saw a sense of wonderment, and nodded his head. "Yes, millions or more. May I use your comset?"
"Sure, help yourself."
Lando touched some buttons. "This is Pik Lando. My companions and I wish to come aboard."
Captain Edna shook her head in amazement. "It speaks standard?"
Lando shrugged. "Understands it anyway. My guess is that it understands Finthian too, and any other language that can be translated into electronic form."
Both watched as a green blob separated itself from the ship, raced outward, and enclosed their ship. Green light filled the cabin. The drifter got bigger as the blob drew them inward. A voice came over the comset.
"Pik? Cap? You read me? This is Cy."
Captain Edna raised an eyebrow and looked at Lando.
"The fifth member of our crew," Lando explained. He touched a button. "Hi, Cy. How's it going?"
"Fairly well," the cyborg answered hesitantly, "but we need to talk. There could be a problem."
"We're on the way," Lando replied. "I'll see you in a few minutes. Lando out."
The drifter became larger and larger until it overflowed the screens. Then it was gone and they were inside the alien ship.
Captain Edna deployed the ship's landing jacks and there was a gentle bump as they touched down. The viewscreens were completely dark.
Lando stood and held out his hand. "Well, thanks for the ride. You're one helluva pilot, a great cook, and the finest storyteller this side of Sol."
Captain Edna's hand was dry and firm. "And you're the finest group of criminals I ever encountered!"
Lando and Della laughed. Edna's expression turned serious. "Tell me something."
"Yes?"
Captain Edna gestured toward the main lock. "What's next?"
Lando shrugged. "I don't know. Find a place to sell her I guess."
"Are you willing to sell her to the Il Ronnians?"
Lando and the others had already discussed that question. Of all the intelligent races man had encountered among the stars only the Il Ronn offered a serious threat. Not because they were more intelligent or more capable than the other races but because only they had the same driving ambition.
The Il Ronn had preceded man into space by thousands of years. But theirs was a cautious and methodical culture in which important decisions were reached through consensus. The result was an empire that expanded in a slow methodical manner.
In the meantime the human empire had grown in magnificent fits and starts. Periods of tremendous expansion had resulted in gains that would've taken the Il Ronnians hundreds or even thousands of years to achieve. All too often however these advances were lost through internal bickering, competition, or just plain laziness. The result was two empires of roughly equal power, each seeking to better the other, each skirting the precipice of war.
So, to give the Il Ronnians an artifact like the drifter would be to give them a technological edge that could destroy the empire. And while the empire had a lot of faults, it was better than slavery. They had all concurred.
Lando shook his head. "No, we'd destroy her first."
The jobber nodded. "Just as I thought. So that leaves the human empire. First place you go, they'll grab you, take the drifter, and dump you on some prison planet."
"True," Della responded, "but what can we do?"
Captain Edna looked at each of them in turn. "Tell me something. How much would it be worth to you if someone could cut you a deal, a real deal, one with guarantees, that allowed you to sell the drifter and walk away scot free?"
Lando looked at Della, then back again. "Ten percent."
Captain Edna's hand shot out. "I could probably get more, but ten percent of a few hundred million is a lot, especially for this old lady. You've got yourselves an agent! Give me a tape to that effect, plus your thumbprints on a standard salvage contract, and I'll go to work."
It took about fifteen minutes to make the tape and thumbprint the necessary document, Cap was more than a little resentful about their failure to consult him, but chose to let it go, knowing they could easily blame him for the whole situation.
Captain Edna saw them t
o the main hatch. "Can you communicate with Pylax?"
Lando shrugged. "Probably."
"Good. I have an electronic mailbox there. Give it a call one standard week from now."
Lando agreed, shook her hand, and followed the others through the lock. Sensing their presence the drifter flooded the bay with greenish light. By the time they cleared the area a green blob was forming around the ship. They watched as the ship seemed to snap out of existence. There was a pop of equalizing pressure and a loud exclamation as Cy squirted himself into the bay.
"The ship! Where did the ship go? Bring it back!"
Lando looked puzzled. "It took off. What's the problem?"
The deck seemed to shift beneath his feet. A familiar nausea entered his gut. A hyperspace shift! The drifter had gone FTL. But that couldn't be. Could it?
Lando looked at Cy. The others did likewise. The cyborg sagged to a lower altitude. "The problem? You want to know what the problem is? We're in hyperspace, that's what the problem is… and I don't have the faintest idea where we're going!"
8
The Il Ronnian Sand Sept trooper stood on a low wall. He was tall and his long spindly legs ended in cloven hooves. His skin was leathery and hairless where it showed around his uniform. Eons before its reddish hue had provided his ancestors with protective coloration on a world of red sand. The trooper's eyes were almost invisible within the shadow cast by a prominent supra-orbital ridge. He had long pointy ears and a tail with a triangular appendage on the end. It rose to shade his eyes from the sun.
Beyond the trooper, higher up on the opposite hillside, Wexel-15 could see another crew hard at work looting a museum. When younger the heavy had spent many happy rals in the museum staring at the perfectly preserved life-forms displayed there and wondering where they came from. Everyone knew that the Lords had occupied many worlds. But where were they? And what were they like?
The trooper saw that Wexel-15 was idle and frowned. His voice boomed through the translator that hung round his neck. "Hurry up, slave. I haven't got all day!"
Wexel-15 processed the alien's words and was just about to speak when the Il Ronnian drew his arm back and brought it forward with lightning speed. The whip was fifteen feet long. It made a loud cracking sound as it came down across Wexel-15's back. The pain was incredible, but outside of an involuntary grunt, he gave no sign of it. To do so would pleasure the Il Ronnian work master and this he refused to do.
Like all of his kind Wexel-15 had a blocky frame that was heavily layered with muscle. It rippled and bunched under the surface of his lavender skin. He wanted to grab the alien,
wanted to rip his arms off, but knew better than to try. Other members of his caste had attacked the Sand Sept troopers and their bodies hung upside down in the main square.
The lights said to wait, said that the time would come, but Wexel-15 had his doubts. The lights might be more intelligent than the heavies, but they were intellectually constipated as well, and had a tendency to dither rather than act.
The truth was that no one knew much about the Il Ronnians— except that they had dropped out of the sky, enslaved the population, and systematically stolen everything in sight. And were still at it. The Lords had known many things and the Il Ronnians wanted that knowledge.
God was surely displeased but had yet to express that anger. And what, outside of divine intervention, could stop them?
So Wexel-15 did as he was told, nodded obediently when the Sand Sept trooper told him to return in four rals, and joined the other heavies as they streamed down toward the temple below. Already stripped of the life murals that had once graced its walls, and defaced with illegible alien graffiti, the temple stood as a mute reminder of how helpless they were.
A shadow passed over him and Wexel-15 knew without looking that it was an Il Ronnian flying machine. Ominous things that hovered over the work parties, patrolled the streets, or simply sat while their weapons probed the air for enemies.
Wexel-15 joined the line that snaked toward the temple's entrance. A light stood in front of him. She was slender like all of her kind and a good four inches taller than Wexel-15. She had six fingers instead of his four and wore a long flowing cloak.
The female was subtle about it, but Wexel-15 noticed the care with which she separated herself from both him and the heavy directly in front of her. Lights avoided physical contact with heavies whenever they could. They claimed it was part of their basic programming but the heavies didn't believe it.
Wexel-15 moved closer and watched her shoulders tense.
The line moved in fits and starts, halting occasionally when someone crowded in, then starting again. Finally, after ten laks or so, Wexel-15 approached the entrance. A male light, his skin glowing pink, held a tray.
The female light paused, took one of hundreds of shiny black disks from the tray, and pressed it to her forehead. It stayed as if glued in place. She moved ahead.
Wexel-15 took her place, selected a disk, and slapped it into place.
The door was tall and thin like those who had designed it. Though the light in front of him entered without difficulty the door frame brushed both of Wexel-15's massive shoulders.
He entered an enormous room. Row upon row of ornate benches filled the hall. The lights were bunched together toward the front of the room with heavies pressed in all around them. The lights were visibly annoyed.
Wexel-15 felt no desire to participate in the game and chose the nearest seat. His back hurt where it pressed against cold stone. The injury mattered very little. The pain and all signs of tissue damage would be gone by tomorrow.
The lights referred to the building as a "temple" but no one knew what it was for sure. The Lords had been fond of grandiose architecture and it was hard to tell which structures had been important and which were overdecorated.
But God had been known to speak within this particular building, when he felt like it, which was very seldom. The last pronouncement had come seventeen dars ago, long before the alien invasion, and had concerned itself with impending geological activity in the southern hemisphere.
The entire population of lights and heavies had been evacuated from that region and many versions had been saved. The ensuing earthquakes had destroyed much of city twelve and most of city thirteen. Now both castes came to gathering after gathering, uncertain about what to do, hoping for divine guidance.
Fifteen laks passed before a wizened old light appeared, held up his hands, and delivered the traditional invocation.
"We are constructs, Lord, and seek your guidance. Speak to us that we might know your will and act accordingly."
God came with a powerful suddenness. Wexel-15 felt himself transported as waves of pleasure rippled through his body. The sensation was like that of an orgasm only much more powerful. It lasted for an entire lak. Then it was gone and the voice of God flowed into their minds.
"Greetings, constructs. Listen carefully for there is little time. The invaders have the means to detect our communications and are headed this way. My instructions are as follows:
"As with evil, salvation shall fall from the sky, and wear strange skins. Take salvation into your homes and ask for guidance. But know this: Nothing comes from nothing and the slowest shall lead."
God's words still echoed in Wexel-15's head when fifteen or twenty Sand Sept troopers poured into the hall and took up positions along the walls. There was silence for a moment. Then Wexel-15 heard a rustling toward the back of the room and turned to see what caused it.
The Il Ronnian leader, and given the deference shown him there was little doubt about his status, was smaller than most members of his race. He wore the long red cape of the Ilwik, or warrior-priest, and a uniform under that. He paused for a moment, allowed his eyes to roam the audience, and walked toward the front of the hall. His hooves made a clacking sound on the ancient pavement.
The Il Ronnian stopped next to a female heavy, pried the disk off her forehead, and held it up to the light. The device glit
tered with reflected light as he turned it this way and that. His voice boomed through the translator that rode perched on his left shoulder.
"And what have we here? A silly bauble, empty of all meaning, or something more significant?"
The Il Ronnian did something with his thumb and the disk flipped end over end to land in an alert noncom's hand.
"Check on it, Reeg. I will want a full report."
Reeg signaled assent with his tail and tucked the disk into his belt pouch.
The alien took three steps up onto the low stage, turned to face his audience, and clasped his hands behind his back.
"Always take the high ground" is an ancient military axiom familiar to soldiers of every race. But it had special meaning for Teex. Even as a youngster his playmates had called him "Shorty" and he never missed an opportunity to even things up.
"I am Quarter Sept Commander Teex." His eyes gleamed as he surveyed the crowd. "Which one of you will tell me what this is all about?"
Silence.
Teex rocked back and forth. His hooves ground against the pavement. "I see. Well, we have ways to handle situations like this. Trooper Leev!"
One of the troopers who lined the walls raised his weapon and aimed it at the audience. Wexel-15 saw a red circle appear on the male seated directly in front of him. It illuminated the entire right side of the construct's head.
Teex pointed at him. His finger quivered slightly. "Speak! Why are you here?"
Maybe a light would've known what to say, and thought fast enough to say it, but the heavy never stood a chance. He had just started to generate a response when the high-velocity slug hit the side of his head, passed through it, and killed the construct seated on his left as well.
Blood and brain tissue exploded in every direction. Some of it splattered onto Wexel-15's face.
He never did know why he did what he did, and could never remember a conscious decision to do it, but Wexel-15 stood, uttered a roar of outrage, and charged. Benches went down and constructs fell. Wexel-15 was determined to reach Trooper Leev and crush all life from his body. He never made it.
Drifter's War Page 8