by Jim C. Hines
Wolf perked up. “Can we keep using that Jane Austen book to distract them? I’m curious about the Frederica character.”
“I don’t care. Just get them clear. Then run a level one on the bridge and cove.”
Kumar turned in his seat. “Sir, do you know what that will do to exposed Krakau flesh? Especially in the cove, with all that water?”
“Do you know what will happen if those six ships are hostile and they reach us before we get to the bridge?” Mops didn’t wait for an answer. “Grom, work with Wolf on figuring out communications while we clear the bridge. If you touch another video game, I’ll order Doc to wipe every one of them from the ship’s systems. Including every saved game and high score.”
The Glacidae gave a drawn-out, belchlike cry of distress. Mops wasn’t sure which was more upsetting, the prospect of losing their scores, or being ordered to work with Wolf. Nor did she particularly care.
“Why can’t Doc handle communications?” Wolf protested.
Grom replied before Mops could answer. “Because the Pufferfish doesn’t have a single interconnected computer system. Too easy to hack. Most command functions are isolated, inaccessible to the average member of the crew. Command-level AI assistants are deliberately restricted in their access. A good thing, too, considering how often you lot manage to fry your AIs and personal assistants. I spent most of yesterday cleaning several terabytes of interspecies porn off Private Garcia’s monocle.” Mops’ comm speaker clearly relayed the repulsed rattle of Grom’s spines. “The things I saw. . . .”
“Stay strong, Technician.” Mops hauled Monroe to his feet. “Let’s get to work.”
The worst thing about stepping onto the newly sterilized bridge wasn’t the sight of the four Krakau officers, but the smell.
Mops had personally cleaned up some of the nastiest substances from throughout the galaxy. She took pride in being the only one on the SHS team who could walk unmasked into a Tjikko composting mausoleum without puking.
Seeing the burnt remains of her former commanding officers made her want to weep, and to lash out at those responsible for the assault on her ship. Her eyes looked at the desiccated bodies and felt grief. Grief that almost overpowered a more primitive response to the cooked-seafood smell that filled the air.
She swallowed hard and stepped onto the bridge. “Kumar, get the bodies down to Medical. Put them in preservation pods for now.”
“Yes, sir.” Kumar tugged out his gloves, grimacing as he approached the body of Second Officer Seville.
Mops could count on her hands the number of times she’d been to the bridge, usually to deal with spills and stains that were too much for the ship’s automated cleaning processes and scrubber-bots.
A large, curved screen dominated the hemispheric room. At the center was the captain’s station, marked off by a horseshoe-shaped console identical to the one in the Captain’s Cove. Eight other duty stations were positioned around the edge of the room, separated by metal guide rails positioned too low for human comfort, but just right for Krakau limbs to curl around.
Every station was a shallow pit or depression, with the captain’s being the deepest. The bumpy metal floor offered a level walkway around the bridge, with ramps leading down to the various duty consoles. Each of those stations contained an array of displays, switches, and other equipment . . . none of which Mops had the slightest idea how to operate.
“Doc, what the hell am I looking at?” she whispered.
Tags appeared on her monocle, identifying the Commander’s station and Navigation to the front right of the Captain, with the Second Officer and Weapons/Defense to the left. Communications and Operations were positioned just behind the captain, with two backup stations at the rear of the bridge. A sealed door in back led to the Captain’s Cove.
The main screen was currently dark, as were the two backup stations. The rest were active, judging from the various lights and displays. They must have come back on automatically after the decontamination.
Mops stepped around to the ramp leading to the captain’s area. There was no chair, just a series of bars that looked perfect for coiling boneless limbs around. Mops tried to find a comfortable position that didn’t bend or compress her body, but soon gave up. Standing amidst the tangle of bars, she turned to her team.
“Monroe, take Weapons and Security. Wolf, you’re on Communications.” She pointed them in the appropriate directions.
Wolf looked longingly at the Weapons and Security pit, but didn’t argue.
“Kumar, hurry up with those bodies, then get to Navigation. Grom, until we figure out how to kill any contaminants you might be carrying without killing you in the process, I’m afraid the Bridge and all other sanitized areas of the ship are off-limits. Stay in Hub Two for now.”
“Understood,” the Glacidae responded over Mops’ speaker. They didn’t sound overly disappointed to be effectively restricted from interacting with humans.
“Doc, how much help can you give us with operating the ship?”
“I have no direct access to the bridge systems. In addition to segregating their computers, the Krakau hard-wired a number of safeguards to prevent AIs from seizing control of the ship. It’s described as a defense against hacking attempts by hostile forces, but I think they’re just paranoid about us. It’s rather insulting.”
“Sir, I think we’re receiving a signal,” said Wolf.
Mops stared down at her own console. “Do any of these screens feed from Communications?”
Her monocle highlighted a screen to the right, more-or-less aligned with the position of the communications station. She studied the array of buttons and sliders and touch screens, all a little too large for human fingers.
“I think I’ve got it.” Wolf did something on her own terminal, and the main screen lit up—not with an incoming signal, but with an animated caricature of the Pufferfish, a disturbing cartoon with too-large eyes and a too-friendly smile.
“Greetings, human member of the EMCS Pufferfish crew! It looks like you’re trying to establish a communications channel with another ship. Would you like help?”
Wolf’s face turned dark, and she hunched over her console. “Sorry. I thought—”
“Yes, we want help,” Mops snapped.
The cartoon smile grew larger, and the eyes turned briefly to pink hearts. “I’m so glad! What format would you like to broadcast in, and what kind of encryption will you need? I’m happy to list all available options for you!”
Mops groaned. She’d forgotten how obnoxious the ship’s tutorial software could be. The Krakau claimed they’d based it on old Earth software. Back in basic training, she’d had nightmares about their teaching interface coming to life and chopping through her door with a combat blade, grinning its sociopathic grin and saying, “It looks like you have too much blood in your body. Would you like help with that?”
She shook herself and said, “Just play the incoming signal, but don’t respond yet.”
The image morphed into an oversized drawing of the comm station controls. “Step one: isolate and filter the incoming signal using—”
The screen went blank again. “I got it back on my console,” Wolf said without looking up. She reached out and touched one of the controls, then jerked her hand back as a painful squeal filled the bridge. “Son of a shit! Sorry. Isolating the signal now.”
A short time later, the main screen flickered, and Mops found herself staring into the iridescent, bulbous eyes of a Prodryan. The bridge comms broadcast a repeating message. “—squadron 52. Your vessel appears to be in distress. Do you require assistance? Please respond. Repeat, this is Assault Commander Burns Like Sunspots of Prodryan fighter squadron 52.”
It was impossible to judge size over the screen, but most Prodryans were about a meter or so in height. From the thickness of the two antennae, this one was male. Organic-looking armor covered
his torso: curved, brightly colored plates riveted and hinged for flexibility. Curved barbs sprouted from inside the bristled forearms. Large pink-and-purple wings, vivid as oversized flower petals, twitched behind him.
Like many Prodryan warriors, this one had a number of mechanical enhancements. Lines of microcircuitry traced silver spirals down his wings. One of his four mouth pincers had been replaced with a metal unit that probably doubled as a communications device.
“Damn,” said Wolf, as the message continued. “I was hoping for a signal from Command.”
“Prodryans offering help,” Monroe muttered. “Nothing suspicious about that.”
“Do we have any information on AC Burns Like Sunspots or the 52nd fighter squad?” asked Mops.
Monroe glared at his console. “I’m sure Command would want that information to be accessible to the human Battle Captain and crew, but damned if I know how to find it. I can tell you the typical Prodryan squad is eight fighters, not six. Those two pirate ships could have been from the 52nd. They’ve probably got a carrier in deep space as their jump point.”
Grom spoke up over the comm. “Lieutenant, may I remind you that your training in sanitation and hygiene in no way qualifies you to take this ship into battle?”
“You may not.” Mops frowned at the screen. The Prodryan had stopped speaking, and appeared to be watching them. Her gut tightened. “Wolf, are we currently broadcasting to the Prodryans?”
“What? No!” Wolf searched her console. “Maybe.”
Mops straightened. “This is Lieutenant Adamopoulos, in command of the EMCS Pufferfish. This is a Nusuran colony system. Your presence violates Article Nine of the Krakau Alliance charter. You’re ordered to leave immediately.”
“I’m not interested in talking to the ship’s janitor,” sneered Burns Like Sunspots. “Where is your captain, human?”
Sorry, mouthed Wolf, sinking even lower into the communications pit.
“Battle Captain Cervantes is occupied with more important matters,” said Mops. “As the commander of the Pufferfish SHS team, I can assure you our missiles will be cleaned and polished when they blow your fighters to dust.”
“We are simply responding to a ship in apparent distress.” Prodryans were terrible liars. As a species, they favored force and violence over subterfuge. It wasn’t until they encountered other intelligent races that they began to practice deception. Like most Prodryans, Burns Like Sunspots needed a lot more practice. His antennae quivered, and his words were stilted, like he was reading . . . badly . . . from a script. Which was a very real possibility. “We must have missed the beacon satellites proclaiming this an Alliance colony system. But as your ship has been drifting since our arrival, we’re happy to offer aid. My squadron will be within range soon, and—”
The Prodryan continued to talk, but no sound emerged. Slowly, Mops turned to Wolf.
“It’s not my fault!” Wolf protested. “Puffy told me to adjust the cache threshold to make sure we could screen out any hostile code in the incoming signal. I must have missed something in the settings.”
“Puffy?” Mops repeated.
“The animated help ship,” Wolf said quietly. “I thought it needed a name.”
“Can they still hear us?”
Wolf threw up her hands. “Piss if I know.”
“Just get the sound back,” Mops snapped. The Prodryans must have deliberately sacrificed those first two fighters in order to infect the Pufferfish crew. The rest of the squad waited for the infection to spread, then showed up to confirm the effectiveness of their new bioweapon.
“—try our patience!” The Prodryan appeared to step closer. “Ignore us at your peril, human!”
“‘Ignore us at your peril’?” Mops turned to Monroe. “Is that our translator, or do they really talk like that?”
“That’s all Prodryan,” said Monroe.
The Prodryan’s wings shivered with anger, releasing a fine cloud of pink dust. “We can see the battle damage to your vessel. Do not play games with me.”
“Oh, that.” Mops leaned back, suppressing a grimace as the metal bars ground against her ribs. “We had a minor skirmish with a pair of Prodryan pirates. Nothing serious.”
The lift door opened and Kumar walked in, humming as he hoisted the next Krakau body onto a maglev stretcher. He was most of the way back to the lift when he glanced up to see everyone—including the Prodryan—staring at him.
“A dead Krakau looks serious to me, Lieutenant,” said Burns Like Sunspots.
“Dead?” Mops blinked. “Oh, she’s not dead. She just had an allergic reaction to some bad shellfish.”
“Bad . . . shellfish?”
“Before you say it, food storage is the Quartermaster’s responsibility, not Shipboard Hygiene and Sanitation. My team had nothing to do with this.”
The Prodryan shivered again, creating a veritable flurry of pink and making Mops wonder what kind of air filtration setup their ships used. “You’re lying.”
“No, there’s a clear separation of responsibility between SHS and the Quartermaster,” said Mops. “We can send you a copy of the EMC Operations Manual if you’d like. The unclassified parts only, of course.”
“That is unnecessary,” Burns Like Sunspots said stiffly.
“While we’re on the subject of lies, do you really expect us to believe you just happened to wander into this system and spot us, dead in space, almost two AUs from where you arrived?” Mops chuckled. “You knew where we were because your fellow Prodryans signaled you. Probably right before the Pufferfish reduced them to scrap.”
“We were . . . surveying this system—these worlds . . . as a potential Prodryan colony site,” Burns Like Sunspots insisted. “Our presence here has nothing to do with secret weapons testing, nor is this in any way a prelude to larger action to undermine and ultimately destroy the Krakau Alliance!”
“Please stop,” Mops groaned. “This is embarrassing, and I’d think you’d be plenty humiliated already, given the situation.”
“What situation?”
She leaned forward. “You hid in the darkness while two Prodryan fighter crews died attacking the Pufferfish. You were too scared to show your face in this system until you thought we were dead. You’re not a warrior. You’re a scavenger, a buzzard come to pick at the bones of our corpse.”
“How dare you,” Burns Like Sunspots roared. His bulbous eyes twitched. “What’s a buzzard?”
“Either get the hell out of here, or get on with your mission,” Mops continued. “Take on an EMC cruiser with your little fighters. Go ahead and try to board our ship. Bring your best guns. We both know those will only piss humans off.”
“Warriors of the Prodryan Expanse do not fear your urinary tactics!”
To her side, Wolf choked off a laugh, turning it into a cough.
“But understand, if you try to set one foot on my ship, I’ll personally tear those gorgeous wings off your body,” Mops said. “If you’re lucky, I’ll kill you myself. If not . . . well, my team hasn’t eaten since before that attack. They’re all very hungry.”
The screen went dead. Mops blinked. “Did we end that transmission?”
“I’m pretty sure they cut us off on their end,” said Wolf. “Sir, didn’t you tell me not to threaten to eat people?”
“I have no memory of that.” Mops stood, twisted her body until her spine popped, and started barking orders. “Monroe, we’re probably going to need missile countermeasures very soon, along with power to the main energy dispersion grid. Weapons would be nice as well.”
“I’ll try.” Monroe sounded sheepish. “I need to reboot my station first. I tried to rush the tutorial, and it locked up on me.”
“Kumar, get back up here. We’ll dump the rest of the Krakau in the cove for now. I need you at Navigation.”
Kumar acknowledged over the comm, follow
ed immediately by Grom protesting, “Lieutenant, was it wise to antagonize our enemy?”
“I’ll take anything that makes them hesitate,” she said. “Maybe later we’ll have the luxury of ‘wise.’”
“We don’t even know where they are,” said Grom.
“We know where they arrived in-system,” Mops snapped. “And we know they’re coming our way. The lag in our conversation was about a second, which puts them around three hundred thousand kilometers. That gives us direction and distance. Get on those scanners and tell me the instant you spot them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mops sank back into her makeshift seat. “Doc, check through our tutorials and give me a crash course on ship-to-ship combat.”
To human eyes watching from shore, the alien craft would have resembled nothing so much as an amalgamation of large bubbles bobbing in the waves. Not the iridescent soap bubbles human children once produced with flimsy plastic wands, but the dirty yellow bubbles those same children would inflate from mucus-clogged nostrils.
Due to the limitations of early Krakau translation software, the first words broadcast to humanity by another sentient species, in Earth Year 2153 and at a volume of 104 decibels, were:
“We come in harmony to defenestrate your dingo.”
At another time in human history, such a message might have triggered panic and bewilderment. On this sunny evening, however, Old MacDonald’s verbal flub went unnoticed.
Rocks crunched beneath the pod’s wheels as it climbed the crumbling road. MacDonald’s scanners tracked heat and movement in all directions, projecting their findings onto the interior shell of her command module.
“This reminds me of the ruins of Black Ice Trench back home,” said her partner, Alouette.
“I see one,” MacDonald announced. “Lurking in that structure ahead. According to the translator, that orange-and-white sign proclaims it the home of the King of Burgers. The human could be one of their leaders.”
The human in question was filthy, but that was no surprise. Living on the surface, exposed to all that dirt and solar radiation, it was a wonder the species had survived at all.