The Xenocide Mission

by Ben Jeapes

  Conscious that every move could be his last if it was misconstrued, he reached the main airlock area.

  ‘We’ll go in here,’ he said, and slipped into the changing room. He shivered at the sight of the rows and rows of lockers in the emergency red light, each belonging to a dead Rustie or human. ‘God, it’s like being surrounded by ghosts.’

  Rustie lockers were arranged in First Breed alphabetical order, which Joel had never mastered, so he had to study the bilingual label on each door before he found Boon Round’s. He tugged it open and grinned. There was the harness and – ta da! – a translator unit. Joel reached out.

  With a roar, the senior male leapt forward. One of his lower hands snatched the unit and one of his upper clubbed Joel in the chest and sent him spinning across the room. Joel crashed into the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of him. XCs were small, but strong. The reaction bounced him back and he caught himself against a locker to steady his movement. The armed guards had brought their guns to bear on him.

  This is it! He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. Joel Gilmore, born June 2130, Armstrong, Luna; died June 2153 in a changing room in a faraway solar system, the last sound in his ears the melodic chimes of arguing XCs.

  Arguing? He opened one eye. The female had snatched the unit away from the male with her lower hands and they were definitely exchanging views. The one with the camera was still recording him and the armed guards still had him covered. Maybe they were just waiting for orders to open fire.

  The male subsided while the female studied the unit. Then she tucked it away inside her tunic and gestured from Joel to the locker. She pushed herself back and the guards lowered their guns.

  Joel cautiously moved forward and reached out for the harness. When he took it out of the locker, the female grabbed hold of his wrist and Joel’s heart almost stopped, but she just wanted to study the gear. She must have worked out that there was nothing electronic or technological about it because she let Joel’s wrist go again. Without taking his eyes off her, Joel wrapped the harness around himself and kicked off for his own locker.

  Home sweet home! He grinned again at the sight of his dark blue shipsuit, two gold stripes on each shoulder, the insignia of his new rank that had cost him so much. And his aide, of course: even with his uniform back on, he would feel naked without that small box of electronics. He wasn’t going to leave that behind.

  ‘Um, I need that too,’ he said. Sign language seemed to be in vogue so he looked at the female, then pointed at the aide. She moved cautiously forward, then had a brief discussion with the senior male. Finally she picked it up and tucked it away with the unit.

  ‘I know,’ Joel said. ‘You think I’ll use it to set off the demolition charges or something, don’t you? Well, it’s a start. Now . . .’ He unfurled the shipsuit, then looked down at himself and wrinkled his nose. He put the shipsuit back in the locker together with the harness, retrieved a clean pair of shorts and kicked off for the showers.

  There had never been any flowing water on SkySpy even when power was on: it was too precious a resource. Washing was done with jets of germicidal, perfumed powder, but even that wouldn’t be possible without power. He had to use the next best thing – dry pads impregnated with the same stuff. Self-conscious under the watchful eyes of the XCs and that bloody camera, he swabbed himself down all over. Then he rubbed it into his hair, grateful that he had always kept it short and that he had had his facial hair follicles permanently zapped. At last, scrubbed clean, sweet-smelling and with fresh underwear, he felt capable of putting the uniform on again, and the familiar feel of the fabric against his skin was bliss. He was enclosed, he was comfortable, he could be warm once more. He zipped the shipsuit up the front and presented himself to the camera.

  ‘004972 Gilmore, Joel, Lieutenant, Commonwealth Navy,’ he said. ‘Not that you lot have ever heard of the Geneva Convention, but I thought I’d mention it. And now I think we’ll do the canteen. Why not?’

  ‘Come on, Boon Round, let’s be having you.’

  Joel unzipped the Rustie’s hammock and pulled Boon Round out. The Rustie didn’t react.

  ‘Look what I got you. You’re a whole Rustie again,’ Joel said. He unwrapped the harness from around himself, then paused. How the hell did you put one of these on a Rustie? It wasn’t something he’d ever done before. He was pretty sure this bit went at the end; this bit wrapped round the body . . .

  But whenever he tried to hold Boon Round steady, the slightest knock would send the Rustie tumbling in mid-air. Joel swore as Boon Round began to rotate for the third time.

  But then Boon Round suddenly steadied. The XC male who had been handling the camera had come forward and was holding him still. Joel stared at him, then turned back to the female who must have given the order.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and finished putting the harness on. Rustie clothing wasn’t the same as human clothing – it gave no protection, offered no modesty, but it did show rank and designation and all the other little things that gave a Rustie identity. A few straps, a few badges here and there, and Boon Round was complete.

  Almost.

  Joel turned back to the female. ‘I need the translator unit, please,’ he said. He unzipped the front of his shipsuit and mimed taking something out, then clipping that something under Boon Round’s throat. ‘Remember?’

  The female paused, then reached into her tunic and retrieved the unit. The aide stayed where it was. The senior male expressed something forcefully again, but was obviously overruled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Joel said. ‘No funny business.’ He made himself smile at the female and took the unit, then attached it to Boon Round’s harness. One of these controls must be the on-switch . . .

  A small light came on, and Joel hoped that was it. ‘Boon Round, can you hear me?’

  The unit would be sending vibrations direct to the Rustie’s cochlea-equivalent. Mouthtalk only, not the fulltalk that was so important to Rusties, but much better than nothing.

  A pause . . .

  ‘Joel Gilmore? At last.’

  The voice was flat, impersonal, but it was a voice and communication had been re-established.

  ‘Yes!’ Joel shouted. ‘Boon Round, it’s OK. You rest there. Look, I brought something for you to eat.’

  They had brought back two boxes from the canteen, one full of food concentrates for humans and the other for Rusties. Joel calculated that if they ate sparingly, they should last about a week and then – hopefully – he would be allowed to go back for more.

  Half an hour earlier, he had been resigned to dying; in the days he had been held captive, he had deliberately not given in to hope because he didn’t think he could handle the disappointment. But now there really did seem grounds for optimism.

  ‘Is there any water?’

  ‘Right here.’ Joel held the straw of a waterpack to Boon Round’s mouth and the Rustie sucked it dry in one swallow. Then Joel picked a slab of Rustie food at random from the box and held it out. One of Boon Round’s graspers, the tentacles on either side of his mouth, reached out and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Feel better?’ Joel said.

  ‘Strength is returning. Thank you.’ Boon Round munched for a while. ‘My harness is uncomfortable. You did not put it on properly.’

  ‘Well, excuse me!’

  ‘If that is your desire.’

  Well, we’re back to normal, aren’t we? Joel thought. He picked out a pack of human food concentrate and bit into it. He looked up at the XCs. ‘Now what?’ he said.

  Now, apparently, the XCs were going into a conference huddle. Joel looked dolefully at them and wondered if they were drawing up plans for an interesting execution. Somehow it didn’t seem as likely as it had an hour earlier, but . . .

  One of the XCs was coming towards him – the big female. She held out one of her several hands and Joel’s eyes widened.

  ‘That’s my ident bracelet!’

  The hand stayed outstretched. Joel
reached out for it cautiously, ready to snatch his hand back at any moment; but still she stayed there, and so he took the bracelet and slid it onto his wrist.

  ‘Thanks. Thank you! Very much. Oh yes. Very much indeed, thank you.’

  The XC looked blankly at him, then withdrew for another conference. Joel withdrew himself to the far side of the room and looked at his wrist thoughtfully. A mugshot of his own features looked back, mounted on the white plastic next to a bar code.

  Then his finger sought out and pressed the red plastic square on the white band, and an image appeared in the air next to it. ‘Oh yes,’ he breathed. ‘Thank you, God.’

  As well as the basic information stored on the bar code, the bracelet could store supplementary information, and if he had stuck to official procedure then the image should have been of his own face together with further details of blood group, allergies, religion, ethnicity, and last will and testament. Shortly before leaving for SkySpy, he had had a better idea.

  Another face had appeared instead. Dark hair that could make the face look harsh when it was pulled back behind the head, or frame it to perfection when it hung loose. Bright blue eyes and a gaze that could blaze with fury or turn soft and tender. He had caught the picture just when the owner of the face was turning to him. It had been one of Admiralty Island’s perfect equatorial evenings and they had been walking along the west shore, watching the sunset. She hadn’t known what he was doing until she turned to say something and saw the camera, and in those eyes were irritation, amusement . . . and, just because he was there, that tenderness he knew so well.

  Joel covered the image with his hand, and the warmth of the laser field suffused gently into his palm. For just a moment he had everything he wanted. He still didn’t know what was going to happen to him, and he didn’t have a plan for escaping – not even the germ of an idea for one. But right now, he didn’t need to go home. He didn’t even feel hungry. He had no idea if he would see her again, but at the moment small mercies were all he had, and the picture was enough. He wasn’t alone any more.

  ‘I cannot agree with your returning that item to the four-legged one,’ Stormer said tightly. ‘Learned Mother,’ he added.

  ‘Every one of the four-legged corpses had one of those around its neck,’ Oomoing said.

  ‘Exactly! It must be important!’

  ‘Important to individuals,’ Oomoing corrected him. ‘Probably not important in the day-to-day running of this base. If it was some kind of computer that held the weapons codes, say, or other vital information, then probably only one of the four-legged ones would have it. Not every single one of them. Would you hand out a self-destruct button to each and every one of your men?’

  Stormer glowered; Oomoing had no idea if he accepted her logic or not, but he wasn’t going to argue. If he ever did, chances were he would go straight over her head to Barabadar.

  ‘So, now what, Learned Mother?’ he said instead. Oomoing looked back at the extraterrestrials. One was eating, the other apparently worshipping some personal god contained in that bracelet. Oomoing congratulated herself on returning it; another calculated risk, but clearly it was safe and it seemed to have generated some good will.

  ‘We continue to observe,’ she said.

  ‘With respect, Learned Mother, your brief from Marshal of Space Barabadar was to learn about them.’

  ‘I’ve learnt a great deal already,’ Oomoing said.

  ‘Such as?’ Stormer said sceptically.

  ‘I’ll make my report to the Marshal of Space,’ Oomoing said, with a childish measure of satisfaction. Stormer wouldn’t Share, so . . . ‘Ultimately, I’d like to take these two back to Homeworld.’

  ‘You’d like to what?’ Stormer exclaimed. ‘Learned Mother,’ he added again.

  ‘I have to study them properly,’ Oomoing said patiently. ‘I can only make so many observations here. I’ll never be able to learn anything definitive about their language, their biology, their culture . . . Do you have a problem, Colonel?’

  ‘Oh . . . tell her, Worthy Brother,’ Stormer said to Fleet.

  The younger male looked abashed. ‘I think my Worthy Brother means,’ he said, ‘that your brief from my mother was to assess their level of threat, their military capability, their technology—’

  ‘Definitely their technology,’ Stormer added.

  ‘Well, of course,’ Oomoing said. ‘But there’s the whole contribution to science to consider . . .’

  ‘That won’t be relevant if my mother considers them a threat to the state, Learned Mother,’ Fleet said. ‘She’ll only be interested in anything we can use to a military advantage.’

  ‘And that won’t include their mating habits and artistry,’ said Stormer. ‘If these two can tell us anything useful, we’ll keep them. Maybe we’ll learn how they Share. Maybe we’ll have to extract the knowledge neuron by neuron, or kill them trying. But if My Martial Mother decides we’re better off just observing the equipment on this base and drawing our own conclusions, then that’s what we’ll do.’ He looked back at the two extraterrestrials. ‘We won’t starve them, don’t worry. A shot to each head and they’ll never know what hit them.’

  ‘I see.’ Oomoing looked sadly back at the two. There was so much knowledge locked up in those heads that Stormer had just so casually offered to blow apart for her, and Barabadar’s orders would override her own. ‘How soon does the Marshal of Space get here?’

  ‘Her ship arrives the day after tomorrow, Learned Mother,’ Fleet said. ‘She’ll listen to your report and then decide their fate.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to find out what I can, as quickly as possible,’ Oomoing said.

  ‘Indeed, Learned Mother.’

  Four

  Day Ten: 12 June 2153

  Oomoing and Barabadar met in the Marshal of Space’s cabin on her ship, shortly after it had braked into a parking orbit around the asteroid.

  The cabin was in one of the ship’s rotating sections. The return of weight, and going back to full white light and the familiar surroundings of a ship and other Kin, were most welcome.

  And then they were at Barabadar’s door. Fleet opened it without knocking.

  ‘The Learned Mother Oomoing, My Mother,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Third Son,’ said a female voice. ‘Wait outside. Learned Sister, please come in.’ So Oomoing entered.

  ‘Learned Sister,’ Barabadar said again. The Marshal of Space rose up from a squatting cushion and presented the Bow of Equals. ‘How good to meet you at last.’

  ‘Martial Sister,’ Oomoing returned. Barabadar, she sensed, was a formidable hunter. Every movement was carefully controlled and spoke of the strength of her animal nature, lurking just below the surface of her conscious mind. Her talons slid in and out frequently and rapidly, all the way out to their quarter tips and then back again. Her eyes were shrewd and her gaze darted here and there, taking everything in. The muscles beneath the skin were tense and powerful.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ Barabadar said, indicating a cushion that faced her own across a work tray. Both females crouched. ‘Keeping busy?’

  ‘Extremely,’ Oomoing said. The Marshal of Space’s whole stance was putting her on the edge of combat herself. ‘There are plenty of bodies to observe.’ She emphasized the point, to observe. Barabadar had been explicitly clear that Oomoing could do what she liked with the extraterrestrial technology, run whatever tests came to mind, make whatever observations . . . but no autopsies. The bodies were to be treated with respect. Oomoing wondered if it was some kind of amends for the unprovoked, unchallenged attacked.

  Barabadar’s forehead muscles rippled in a smile, though there wasn’t much humour there. ‘I’ve read the preliminary reports you transmitted,’ she said. ‘Your assessments so far sound plausible.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Learned Sister,’ Oomoing said. She wondered how Barabadar would react if she complimented the Marshal of Space on being good at tactics.

  ‘In fact, you’ve covered thin
gs so thoroughly it’s barely worth Sharing,’ Barabadar said casually. She picked up some notes from the tray in front of her and ran her eyes over the front page. ‘They’re clearly a long way ahead of us, but I’d already guessed that . . . You think they have control of gravity?’

  ‘A hypothesis that fits the facts,’ Oomoing said. The corridors in the asteroid were smooth, round tunnels with metal grids that provided a flat surface; there were no handholds, nothing to assist someone trying to get round in freefall, which was the base’s current state. Something must have held the extraterrestrials against those grids. And she had seen the recording of the extraterrestrials’ escape ship – even she knew that no conventionally driven ship moved like that. It had effortlessly bridged the space between the rock and Firegod, after which it had vanished behind the gas giant, never to reappear.

  ‘And they must be able to travel at phenomenal speeds, to travel between stars at all. Any clues?’

  Oomoing shrugged. ‘There are two main theories amongst the scientific community as to how it could be done. Some think it should be possible to warp the local area of time and space in a way that seems to propel you faster than light . . .’

  ‘Seems?’

  ‘You don’t feel you’re moving at all; it would be as if the rest of the universe came to you rather than the other way round. But from everyone else’s perspective you would just vanish. The other theory is about opening up small holes in space, which are predicted by some of the latest theories, and passing through them. For that, of course, you could just use a conventionally powered ship that just happened to have the means for opening a hole on board.’

  ‘Not very convenient,’ Barabadar commented. Oomoing paused; this was a practical point from a professional spacegoing Kin that had never occurred to her in her flights of theory. No, you wouldn’t want to open up the hole on board the ship itself.

  ‘Well, perhaps the means for opening the hole is outside the ship . . .’