by Jim C. Hines
“You’re eleven meters from Recreation,” said Doc, without interrupting his reading. “Everything looks clear. Better drop low to take a quick peek, though. You know, just in case the internal scanners missed anything.”
Mops dropped to one knee, poked her head around the corner and choked back a curse as she came face-to-face with what she belatedly identified as a half-chewed combat dummy from Recreation.
“Your heart rate just spiked,” Doc said, his words brimming with innocence. “Is everything all right?”
“Hilarious,” Mops snarled. “Remember your little joke when I flush you down a toilet so you can scan the pipes from the inside.”
“Oh, relax. I knew the corridor was safe. Human psychology suggests humor is a useful tool for coping with stressful situations.”
“So is violence against computers.” Up ahead, the door to Recreation was stuck halfway open, blocked by another fallen dummy. Mops whispered into her collar. “Grom, can you hear me?” There was no response. “Doc, give us a tactical view of Recreation.”
Soft-glowing lines appeared on her monocle: a simple projection of the recreation area. Green figures appeared, crowded around the pool.
“That’s . . . more than eleven,” said Huang.
“Sixteen,” Monroe confirmed. “Doc needs a refresher course on basic counting.”
“There were eleven,” Doc said coolly, broadcasting to the entire team. “The other five must have wandered in, drawn by the crowd. And for your information, I can derive the Bailey-Borwein-Plouffe formula in the time it takes you monkeys to remove your boots and count to twenty.”
Monroe chuckled quietly, raising his hands in mock surrender.
Mops studied the layout in Recreation. All personnel were required to maintain a certain level of fitness. Most found it a source of pride, particularly the infantry grunts and those like Wolf who dreamed of joining them. There were ongoing friendly and not-so-friendly competitions. The walls displayed recent and all-time records in various feats of strength, endurance, agility, and more.
Equipment included treadmills, climbing walls, resistance machines, and plenty of combat dummies, both static and responsive. A large, rectangular pool took up roughly half of the room. Trust the Krakau to focus on aquatic fitness. A handful of combat dummies were set up in the pool for underwater practice, including two human-shaped machines, three Prodryans, and a Glacidae.
Treadmills routinely spilled careless or overworked runners into the pool. A climbing wall curved up over the water, meaning anyone who lost their grip went for an unexpected swim.
The sixteen crew were scattered around the pool. They knew Grom was in there. Once ferals sighted prey, they wouldn’t break away for anything short of another meal.
Mops turned to Monroe. “Suggestions?”
“Don’t let them get behind us. If we get swarmed and surrounded, it’s over.” His fingers drummed against his thigh. “We need to thin the mob. Lure them out.”
Mops glanced over her team, her attention settling on Kumar.
Kumar’s shoulders sagged.
“Him?” asked Wolf. “I should be the one who—”
“I need someone to lead the ferals away, not start a brawl with them,” Mops interrupted. “Doc, plot a path from Recreation. Tag anyone within a hundred meters, and have a lift car waiting at the end of the route. If you get the chance to seal off some bulkheads and trap a few more ferals along the way, great. Kumar, all you have to do is follow Doc’s directions. Once we’ve got Grom, I’ll tell you where to meet us.”
“You’ll have a head start,” Monroe added. “Their coordination is shit. You should be fine.”
“Unless I fall,” Kumar countered. “Or run into a group of ferals Doc couldn’t see. Or there’s a lift malfunction. This ship is fresh out of combat. We don’t know what else might have been damaged.”
Mops put a hand on Kumar’s shoulder. “Breathe, Sanjeev. You can do this.”
“I know, I know, I know.” He shuddered. “Just . . . give me a minute please, sir. To plan for everything that could go wrong.”
“You’re going to need a lot more than one minute,” said Wolf.
Monroe punched Wolf’s arm, shutting her up.
Mops turned her attention back to Recreation. “Doc, can you power up the air vents in there on my signal?”
“No problem.”
The vents were designed to clear excess sweat and moisture from the room. In this case, the noise should also cover any sounds Mops and her team made as they approached.
Kumar fumbled through his harness, rearranging tools and cleaning supplies. “Flashlight in case there’s a power outage,” he mumbled. “Access key for locked doors. Pry bar. Detergent and hull paint to slow them down. . . .”
He removed a roll of carbon fiber tape and began looping it around his left forearm. He did the same to his right, creating makeshift bracers. The tape was more than strong enough to stop human teeth. He swallowed and said, “I think I’m ready, sir.”
“Doc’s got eyes on the whole ship,” Mops reminded him. “He’ll keep you safe.”
Kumar nodded and set off toward the half-open door to Recreation. Once he was within arm’s reach, he stopped, and Mops could see his breathing speed up. His hands balled tight. He glanced over his shoulder, then jumped forward, waving his arms.
Nothing happened.
After a moment, he stepped closer to the doorway. “They’re not reacting,” he whispered, his words relayed through their comms.
“They’re fixated on Grom,” said Monroe. “You’ve got to get their attention.”
Kumar knocked on the door, tentatively at first, then harder. He tried shouting at them. Mops could see annoyance replacing his fear. He tried again, then pulled a screwdriver from his harness and knelt by the damaged combat dummy, muttering to himself. “After all that, you’re not gonna just ignore me!”
He worked at the neck for several minutes, replaced the screwdriver, and removed the head from the dummy.
With an angry yell, he hurled the head into Recreation. There was a meaty thump, followed by angry groans.
“It worked,” Kumar said brightly.
“That’s great,” said Mops. “Run!”
Kumar took off down the corridor, followed by nine of the ferals. Leaving seven for the rest of them to deal with. She’d hoped for better, but would take what she could get. “Doc, start up those vents, see if it startles any more of them out of the room.” She studied the locations of the remaining seven on her monocle. “And lower all of the climbing ropes on the aft wall.”
“This might not be the best time for a workout,” said Monroe.
Mops affixed a small grasping claw to the end of her utility pole and tested to make sure it worked. Normally, the claw was for retrieving dropped tools and other items from drains, crevasses, or anywhere else they managed to lodge themselves. “Wolf, I want you by those ropes. Monroe, stay here for now. Monitor the corridor, and be ready to jump in if I call.”
She would have preferred to have Monroe helping her round up their feral crewmates, but all it would take was a momentary loss of balance, or a single malfunction of his artificial arm, and they’d be overwhelmed. From the way Monroe’s mouth pressed tight, he knew it, too.
She summarized her idea for getting the crew out of the way. “Remember, these are our crewmates. They’re sick and not thinking clearly. Stick to the plan.”
“Krakau make plans,” snorted Wolf. “Humans barge in and kick ass.”
“Of those two species,” said Mops, “which still has a functional civilization?” She gripped her utility pole in both hands and crept toward the door. Once there, she double-checked her monocle to make sure the doorway was clear.
As with Kumar, the remaining ferals didn’t immediately respond as Mops slipped through and headed toward the climbi
ng wall. To her left, a dark, rainbow-edged film covered the surface of the murky water in the pool, courtesy of Grom’s secretions. She raised her utility pole and waited for Wolf to join her. “Ready?”
“Bring me a body,” Wolf replied.
By now, four of the seven ferals had apparently decided the potential new meals were more interesting than the one hiding in the pool. They trudged closer.
Mops stepped to meet them. She lunged for the closest, Private Washington from Supplies, jabbing the butt of her pole into his face. A follow-up swing to the knees knocked him to the ground. Before he could recover, Mops spun her pole and clamped the claw around his ankle.
She hauled him toward Wolf, who clipped a carabiner to his harness.
“Doc, retract line one!” Mops shouted.
Up went Washington, until he hung from the ceiling like an old Earth piñata. Mops used her pole to push back the other ferals, trying to isolate Private Red Cloud long enough to get him hooked to the next rope.
Red Cloud stumbled. His hand clamped around Mops’ utility pole as he toppled slowly into the pool. Mops braced herself, trying to yank her weapon free as the others closed in.
Wolf charged past with a roar, ropes in both hands. She slammed her shoulder into the gut of the nearest of the two remaining ferals. She and Sergeant Perón fell to the ground. Private Simpson piled on, trying to tear through the back of Wolf’s hood.
“Dammit, Wolf!” Mops kicked Red Cloud in the face, pulled her pole from the water, and cracked Simpson over the head with it.
Simpson didn’t even look up. Mops switched ends and tried to get the claw around the woman’s neck so she could lever her off Wolf.
“Got you,” shouted Wolf. “Retract line two!”
The motor strained audibly as it pulled the rope, dragging Perón from the bottom of the pile and raising her up to dangle beside Washington.
Mops clipped another line to the back of Simpson’s harness. “Doc, reel in line four.”
The remaining three ferals had given up on Grom and were circling around the other side of the pool.
“Fall back, Wolf.” Mops struggled to focus. She knew their attackers. JG Rudolph always joked about loaning explosives to Mops’ team to help clear jammed Krakau plumbing. Private Baggins once managed to infest his quarters with a Tjikko fungus that had required the whole place to be stripped and sanitized. Private Gandhi was one of the best sharpshooters on the ship. But there was no recognition in their faces. No awareness. Nothing but an instinctive hunger.
“I’ve got this.” Wolf started forward.
“Take one more step and I’ll have you transferred to that Nusuran freighter,” Mops said without looking. “You can spend the next five years cleaning up after them.”
Wolf didn’t answer. She didn’t charge in like a wild animal either. Good enough. Mops handed line number three back to Wolf and grabbed line five for herself. “Doc, get ready to drop lines one, two, and four on my signal. Hard.”
“Got it.”
Rudolph paused as she reached the first of her suspended companions. Her head tilted to contemplate Washington’s slow, helpless kicks, and then she shoved past him. Gandhi followed close behind. Off to the side, Red Cloud pulled himself out of the water behind Baggins.
“Now,” said Mops.
Washington and Perón dropped to land atop Rudolph and Gandhi. Their flailing knocked Red Cloud back into the water. Mops darted in and secured her line to Rudolph’s harness.
As Doc hauled the trio back into the air, Wolf managed to hook Gandhi. He flew upward, twisting and kicking, and his foot clipped the side of Wolf’s head. She toppled into the pool after Red Cloud. Baggins jumped in after her.
“Shit. Doc, can you power up the underwater combat dummies?”
“Done.”
In the murky water, the movement should keep the ferals distracted. “Wolf, as long as you’re in there, find Grom and get them out. Monroe, we could use an extra hand.”
By the time Mops reached the control console on the front wall, Monroe was there. Mops pointed to the pool and tossed him her utility pole. He caught it and hurried to the far side.
Mops couldn’t see anything clearly in the water, but her monocle highlighted Wolf and Grom, along with the two remaining ferals closing in on them. Monroe dropped flat at the edge of the pool and thrust the pole into the water, toward Wolf.
Mops cleared the terminal and pulled up the maintenance menu.
“Got ’em,” Wolf shouted over her comm.
Mops checked over her shoulder to see Wolf gripping the end of the pole with one hand. Her other was twisted around Grom’s harness. Monroe hauled back, pulling them toward the edge. Once they were close enough, he tossed the utility pole aside and used both hands to drag the Glacidae from the water, with Wolf pushing from the other end. Wolf climbed free a moment later.
As soon as they were clear, Mops activated the emergency drainage cycle.
The pool was always drained before A-ring jumps, battle situations, and for cleaning purposes. The normal process took about eight minutes. But in emergencies—damage to the ship’s internal gravity, for example—high-pressure vacuum pumps could empty all one and a half megaliters in ten seconds . . . assuming the pool was free of potential obstructions.
The combat dummies were secured to the bottom of the pool for safety. Baggins and Red Cloud were not.
Green warning lights shone through the dark water, and a series of drains in the bottom opened like tiny black holes. Baggins and Red Cloud were yanked downward and pinned against the closest drains. Grates over the drains kept the ferals from being crushed and pulled into the pipes, but they were going to have the galaxy’s worst hickeys.
With two drains blocked, it took more like twenty seconds to empty the pool. It was more than enough of a head start to get Grom out of Recreation and seal the door behind them. Mops sagged against the wall. “Kumar, what’s your status?”
“I’m on deck M, circling back in your direction.” He was breathing hard, but there was no panic in his voice. “How’s Grom?”
“Alive, but unconscious. Rendezvous with us at—”
“Waste Reclamation,” Kumar interrupted. “If Grom is injured, they might need extra methane. We can tap the methane stores in Waste Rec.”
Mops blinked. “Good thinking.”
“I spend a lot of time in Medical,” he explained. “I’ve picked up a few things. I like watching the autosurgeons work. Autopsies are my favorite. You get to see so much more of how the bodies fit together. Once, after the battle of Pictor 3, I got to watch them replace one of Private Hamilton’s lungs. Then they were removing the military implants from Prodryan POWs—”
“You can tell us about your hobby later.” Mops turned her attention to Grom. The Glacidae was small for their species, about one and a quarter meters in length. A hundred-plus stubby legs protruded from either side of their tubular body. Each leg sprouted hundreds of thin yellow tendrils, creating a feathery appearance.
Thicker limbs ringed Grom’s head, each one terminating in long, curved claws that had evolved for digging through the snow and ice of the Glacidae home world. Yellow spines lay flat along the back. Atop the head, above the beaklike mouth, were two enormous brown eyes that always reminded Mops of an Earth puppy.
A thin oily substance dripped like brown tears down Grom’s face, cutting through the beads of water clinging to their skin.
Grom’s equipment harness was secured to the front quarter of their body. Mops didn’t recognize most of the tools, used for computer maintenance and repair throughout the ship. Their monocle was missing, probably lost in the pool.
“Can those spines pierce our suits?” Wolf asked, plucking one from her sleeve and flicking it onto the floor.
“As long as your suit integrity alert isn’t going off, you’re fine.” Pounding from th
e ferals inside Recreation made her jump. She grabbed the side of Grom’s harness. “Wolf, give me a hand.”
Together, they hoisted Grom into the air and started toward the lift, letting the rear third of the Glacidae’s body slide along the floor.
Wolf looked back at Recreation, and her usual bravado slipped. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
“Get Grom to safety,” said Mops. “Signal Command for assistance. Stay alive.”
“Sounds like a simple plan,” said Monroe, pausing to pop a bubble of dark brown gum. “You’ve heard the Earth saying about the best laid plans, right?”
“Isn’t that the one about the plans of rats and men?” asked Wolf. “Rats and men always seemed like a weird collaboration.”
“That’s why it requires planning,” said Monroe.
“I’ve made a command decision.” Mops waited a beat before adding, “I’m going to ignore you both from here on out.”
The most brilliant Krakau scientists were assigned to work on the biological restoration of humanity. As a result, the scientists who worked on other aspects of human culture were . . . not the most brilliant.
Für Elise was a xenolinguist and unsuccessful poet who had tried and failed to get a position on the Alliance Exploratory Council. While other, higher-status linguists worked to develop a single language for the newly cured humans, Elise was assigned to review the entirety of human literature and curate those works to be translated into the new Human tongue.
Elise spent four years on this project. Her notes from this time are illuminating. Selected excerpts follow:
“Reviewed complete works of Dr. Seuss. These books are not, as first assumed, a guide to obscure Earth creatures. I suspect Seuss lied about being a doctor. Conclusion: total gibberish, completely untranslatable.”
“Have reviewed the history and causes of Earth conflicts through the ages. Recommendation: do not translate or republish human religious texts.”
“Works tagged ‘fantasy’ should be ignored. Based on early estimations of restored human intellectual capacity, these stories would only confuse them.”