The Terrans

by Jean Johnson

  The low ceiling, Li’eth knew, was designed to intimidate the Salik themselves. Roughly the same height as a V’Dan, their eyes sat on bulgy, short, thick stalks that aimed a little more upward than most sentient races, allowing them to swivel and look around in a rather wide field of view. Their backwards-jointed legs and flipper-feet meant that their stride was very bouncy on the ground. Salik prisoners—they ate their own kind, not just other races like the V’Dan—would be faced with smashing their eyes on that ceiling if they weren’t careful, a bit of psychological and mild physical torture piled on top of all the rest.

  A bit of amusement for the enemy, tormenting their sentient prey. Mind games. Predinner show, because there were visual sensors all down the long row of cages in this particular cargo hold.

  The central aisle didn’t have a low ceiling; the space over their heads contained storage cabinets. Sometimes, crew members would come down the aisle, smacking their broad, flat lips in pwok-pwok noises meant to remind their sentient cargo that they were going to be eaten soon, and grab whatever it was they needed or put something back. Sometimes they slapped the bars with their tentacle hands, their peculiar bouncy gait bounding a little higher with each step while they strutted past, whenever they moved unburdened.

  Sitting there with his back against the rear wall, arms wrapped around his knees, Li’eth hated the waiting and waiting while the remnants of his crew were whittled down, bit by bit. He studied his naked, lightning-striped limbs, and contemplated the most unique difference of the amphibious enemy.

  Salik arms were unique among sentientkind. They had an upper arm bone, but it was thicker than usual to support their unusual musculature. At the elbow joint, rather than starting a new bone, evolution had given them tentacles. There were two points where each arm split; the one at the elbow was called the macrojunction. Halfway down from that, each tentacle split in half again at the microjuncture, leaving them with four tapered, curling limbs.

  Instead of fingers, they had suckers . . . and they used that uniqueness to guard their various controls. Some needed to be pushed, but most of those found on a military ship required suction to lift them up, a safety feature that no other race could get past without mechanical aid. Certainly, every last prisoner cell was operated by suction-touch, not by pressing any buttons. Same with the doors, same with the lifts . . .

  Escape without help was near impossible. A rescue even with prophesied aid would be very difficult. And while he chose to believe the Sh’nai writings that spoke prophetically of this time, this place . . . Li’eth was finding it harder and harder to believe he would be rescued.

  It did not help that he had no way to protect himself from the residual fears and despairs of the previous inhabitants of his cell. Object-reading was not common among the Sh’nai faithful, but it wasn’t entirely unique either, for those who had holy gifts. His ability to sense the previous occupants’ thoughts, emotions, even their physical actions—mostly pacing or trying to concuss themselves on the bars—wasn’t a pleasant experience. The least tainted place was this back edge, but not the corners. Too many frightened, forsaken souls had huddled and wept in the corners. The middle of the wall was safer.

  As for his other abilities, his very minor, erratic fire-calling ability was of no use; despite trying and trying, he couldn’t even summon up a tiny spark. He could make the warm, heavily humid air seem a little cooler, but that only made his body feel clammier when the moisture in the air condensed on his skin . . . and it, too, was sporadic. His ability to heal with a simple touch was of no use, either; it was as difficult to control as his fire-calling under the best conditions, and he doubted it could handle something as horrifically damaging as being bitten and chewed to death by the sharp teeth of his captors.

  He couldn’t even read their minds. That would have been useful because he could have gained tactical knowledge that could be analyzed once rescued. If rescued. But the Saints had not gifted him with that particular power. Li’eth had never been able to glimpse the thoughts of the other Alliance races, just his fellow V’Dan.

  Of course, if he could have read others’ thoughts, he would have been assigned to a diplomatic career long ago, not a military one. Reading the auras of those around him . . . that one had almost sent him into a diplomatic career. It should have if the war hadn’t happened, hadn’t extended his military career. He could do it fairly well, but it was useless right now. His fellow captives were muddy and dull with fear and despair, and their captors were exuberantly bright with sadistic joy and smug superiority. Any two-credit xenopsychologist could have guessed as much.

  Noises echoed down the corridor, the measured slap-slap of booted flipper-feet.

  V’Dan toes were short and pointed forward, extending as individual digits with no webbing to speak of. Salik toes were long, pointed backwards, and came with stiff but still flexible webbing, since as a species, Saliks were designed to spend the first five years or so of their lives in water, learning how to hunt. Backwards-pointing feet were meant to ensure they could also travel easily on land to hunt dry prey, with powerful leg muscles that could leap up and slam down onto an opponent. They were at a disadvantage on ships designed for V’Dan and Solaricans and more, and preferred open combat. Unfortunately, Li’eth and the others were already captured and caged.

  It was too soon for another victim to be selected. Too soon for the guards to come by with the porridge-glop that they served as prison food. Grain-based, thank the High One. Nothing meat-based, and nothing too stiff to choke on. He supposed it might be possible to drown in the stuff, but he was not yet despondent enou—

  “By the Saints!”

  Startled, Li’eth rose to his feet, approaching the bars warily. Others in this wing of the prey cargo hold either rushed to their cage fronts to look or shrank back as far as they could get, covering their eyes. One of the men who was looking screamed, stumbling back. It sounded like one of the leftenants superior from the engineering section of the ship. Another cursed, while a third officer heaved up the contents of her stomach. Underneath it, he heard the thump, thump, thump of flesh striking bars . . . but it was a little stiffer than a tentacle should sound. Nor did it have any of the faint sounds of suckers smashed against the bars, pulling and popping as they released.

  As the Salik came into view, Li’eth noted the marks on the alien’s uniform. It was the captain of the ship. He came down every so often to psychologically torment his captives, and Li’eth supposed this visit was perhaps a little overdue. So when he looked at the object striking the bars of his own cage as it, too, came into view . . . he flinched. He didn’t scream, didn’t cry out, and didn’t vomit, though it was a close thing for all three, but Li’eth did flinch.

  Two of the alien’s microjuncture tendrils were wrapped around Gi’ol’s bloodless right arm. It had to be hers; Li’eth recognized the gray jungen spots, particularly the one on the base knuckle of her thumb—Its thumb, he quickly corrected himself. Its thumb. The thumb, the arm, it, thing, no gender, nonliving object, just a thing, nothing to focus on, no sense of identity, Saints dammit . . .

  The captain bared his teeth in a predator’s smirk, his wide, fleshy lips bending with rubbery grace, his nostril flaps whistling slightly with each inhale. “Tassty bridge crew, Captainn,” the Salik offered. He lifted the arm, eyed the fingers, and bit one off in front of Li’eth. “A bit dead now, but . . . no matter. We’ll eat another one sssoon.”

  “Choke on it and die.”

  “I thought you liked our visssits. Our . . . chats,” the alien offered, still grinning. Li’eth focused firmly on those stubby eyestalks, and not on the bits of flesh caught in those teeth. “Would you like to be eaten next?”

  “Tell me something interesting, plant-hunter,” Li’eth countered, dredging up his courage with the insult. His faith. “I know you only think you’re going to eat me.”

  “You thhhink you will esscape?” the captain countered, swiveling both eyes to look at him. The Salik tore of
f another finger and chewed thoughtfully, powerful hind molars cracking through the bones before swallowing it all. “Will you?”

  Don’t think. Don’t think. He stared down the Salik’s nearest eye. “I’d slow down on eating us, if I were you. That is, if you want to live a few extra days.”

  “Shh-nakh’whsh,” the officer snorted, nostril-flaps working. Like the K’Katta, they spoke a language type that no one else could duplicate among the known races. Unlike the K’Katta, they could still master Imperial V’Dan, the trade tongue of the Alliance. In fact, they were quite good at the glottal stops compared to the others, though as a species, they lingered a bit on certain consonant sounds. “You know nothing.”

  “I know prophecy,” Li’eth muttered, trying not to think about how much poor Ensign Gi’ol must have suffered, being eaten alive one and two and five bites at a time, depending on how many were given the honor of devouring live, sentient meat. “You will die. All of you will die, in due time.”

  The captain snorted again, ate another bite . . . then slapped the ragged remains of the hand against the bars of Li’eth’s cell as he turned and walked away. There wasn’t much left in the way of liquid blood in the . . . thing, but a few brownish clots broke free, spattering on the bars and staining the floor.

  Li’eth closed his eyes and resolved not to stretch out anytime soon. This is for the good of the future . . . Sacrifices are being made, but the war will turn around, and in the end, we will prevail . . . We will gain new, powerful allies . . . and together, we will drive the Salik straight to hell, Saints willing . . . If the High One was right.

  Saints, let Her be right!

  JANUARY 28, 2287 C.E.

  GAMMA DRACONIS SYSTEM

  The Aloha 9 swept smoothly back into realspace under the control of its now-fully-experienced crew. Robert, Brad, and Ayinda were long since accustomed to the effects of living too fast for the rushing seconds it took to transit hyperspace, and so was Maria. It had taken Jackie and Lars a good five missions apiece to get over the strongest feelings of nausea—and so forth—but now they were accustomed, even inured. It was amazing what a body could get used to with constant exposure.

  Prepared by two weeks’ worth of multiple jumps per day, Jackie reached immediately for the readied nutrient pack with her left hand and sucked on the straw as soon as her teeth had the valve open. With her right hand, she called up the onboard hyperrelay to ping MacArthur Station, informing them that they had arrived, then accessed the scanners so that she, too, could see what this new system looked like.

  At least they hadn’t hit anything yet. That was a very real danger when entering a new system. Weeks were spent analyzing the lightwave readings of possible visitation candidates, with astrophysicists back home discerning what the rotational plane was and carefully selecting entry points that were either above or below that plane, in the hopes of limiting the chance of a crew running into something small and hard to see in that new system. There were stars with celestial bodies that orbited wildly off the stellar equator, but those were rare, thankfully.

  “How far off are we?” Robert asked Ayinda.

  “Just a moment, just a moment . . . seven light-seconds. We overshot our mark,” the astronavigator told him. “Not by too much, though. Tolerance is any arrival within twenty light-seconds of mark, so don’t you dare pout, Commander.”

  “It is a new star system,” Lars agreed, his tone absentminded. He peered at his screens. “The angular-momentum measurement isn’t going to be precise until the probes have had a good week’s worth sent home for analysis. It will be good for the navigation programming to get insystem readings. This star is so big and inflated—it is not quite twice the size of our sun in its mass, but it is very bloated by comparison. I wonder what that has done to the orbits of the planets around it . . .”

  He sounded lost in his work. Jackie had to attend to her own as she received pingback from their headquarters, along with an invitation for an open-channel chat. The lag time was almost a full second turnaround, not quite half a second one way, so it wouldn’t interfere with communications too much. “This is the Aloha 9 to MacArthur Station. We have achieved safe entry into the Gamma Draconis System, and will be skimming the system and launching our three surveillance relay drones over the next eight hours. Do we have any other instructions at this time?”

  “Roger, Aloha 9; the astrophysicists are eager for any and all information you can give them on that system. As per usual, try to get enough lightwave information on all the nearest systems around it to pick the next good one. Otherwise, there’s nothing out of the ordinary on this end. Try to get some interesting pictures of the system while you’re there.”

  “Roger that, MacArthur. We’ll turn our attention to getting the first of the surveillance probes sent out. Next system data stream will be sent in five minutes; next audio contact in thirty minutes, unless we do find something interesting. Aloha 9 out,” Jackie added.

  “MacArthur out.”

  “How does our current flight path look, Robert, Ayinda?” she asked her crewmates. “Clear and smooth? If so, I’d like to go get the first of the relays ready.”

  “First of all, wait until we’re at a relative dead stop,” Robert told her. “Then you can move. If we have clearance.”

  “Not yet,” Ayinda stated. “We need a solid half hour of lightwave readings. New system, remember?”

  “Ah, right. Don’t be in such a hurry to pull up your bootstraps, Jackie,” Robert amended over his shoulder. “You’ll get them launched in due time.”

  “At least she’s pulling her weight,” Brad muttered.

  “Colvers!” Ayinda snapped.

  “It was not a fat joke!” he defended himself sharply.

  “At Ease, both of you,” Jackie told them. She kept her tone soft, since he was trying to behave. “Now, since I have some time before I have to go prep for launch, I might as well make a telepathic sweep of our nearspace. So try to think about fruit or something.”

  Colvers, when she lightly swept her unfurling gift past him, was strongly thinking about nuts. And of her being one. Jackie let it pass.

  —

  Four hours later, Robert, Ayinda, and Lars were sleeping in the crew quarters, their arms drifting lightly in front of them as they floated in their sleeping sacks. This mission had taken them quite a ways from the Sol System, and each jump required a bit of rest between. They could string up to four jumps in a row before having to rest for several hours, but as each system jumped to was still a fairly new entity, mission protocols demanded taking a few hours between each hop.

  That added up after a while. They had drawn straws—figuratively, using a random number generator programmed into the ship’s computers—to see who got to sleep first. One of the pilots had to remain on duty at all times, and someone had to monitor the scanners to provide a second set of eyes, particularly if the pilot had to use the facilities. At the moment, Maria was busy somewhere in the back, while Jackie and Brad sat watch in the cockpit while they drifted toward their next drop-off point for the last of their allotted three probes.

  Silence reigned in the cockpit . . . if one didn’t count the soft tap of controls, and the thrum of engines and thruster fields, and the faint beeps of various machinery functioning around them. Finally, Brad lifted his chin. “Everything looks safe. You can prep for probe launch when ready. Sir.”

  “I’ll have to call Maria up here to take my place at the scanners,” she reminded him. A quick check of the interior cameras showed the doctor working in the kitchen area. Opening the intercom, she spoke quietly, since it looked like the door between kitchen and the cabin with the three lightly tethered sleepers was open. “Jackie to Maria, can you come take my place at the scanners?”

  The dark-haired physician looked up and over at the camera, nodded, and held up a couple of packets wrapped in thermal cloth. A few moments later, she pulled a third one from the oven, closed the door, and kicked off one of the cabinets, twisting m
idair to plant her feet and soar in nearly the opposite direction. A few moments later, the cockpit door opened, allowing her entry.

  “Time to eat, amigos. Food first, probe launch after,” the doctor asserted. “But you can take this back with you. Just pack away the garbage before you slip into your p-suit,” Maria added, handing a packet to their comm tech. “You like the cheese tortellini, yes?”

  “Not when I’m about to drag on a pressure-suit,” Jackie demurred, reaching for her breather mask. It was hard to enjoy food with a perpetually semi-stuffed-up nose. Zero gravity didn’t allow the body to clear the nasal passages effectively. “I get like Lars does about half an hour later.”

  “Sí, sí, I forgot. Well, I’ll have it, then. Gravy meat-loaf hash?” Maria asked.

  “I’ll take that one,” Brad told her, pulling his own mask away to speak clearly before reapplying it, sniffing deep to try to clear his own sinuses. Jackie gestured for him to take the offered meal. Maria pulled herself that way, handed over the packet.

  “That leaves the pork meal,” Maria stated. “It’s the barbecue one.”

  “The one that tastes utterly unlike a properly pit-barbecued pig.” Jackie sighed. It had pineapple and seasonings, and . . . Unfortunately, no matter how much the Space Force’s chefs tried, the microgravity environment itself dulled one’s taste buds and sense of smell. Even if they had packaged up a real lu’au meal, slow-baked barbecued pork, ten kinds of fish, and plenty of fresh fruit . . . it would not taste right in space. Not until they got back into a gravitied environment, even a simulated one like the MacArthur, would the food be able to smell—and thus taste—right. Jackie held out her hand toward the pork packet. “I’ll take it anyway. I’m not going to waste one of my tubes of poi paste, though. Better a disappointed tongue than a disturbed digestive tract, however tastier it’ll make the stuff.”