by Jim C. Hines
“I thought humans wore clothing,” said Alouette.
“Preliminary briefings always get things wrong,” MacDonald said absently, her three long, boneless tentacles working to pull up additional readings. The human’s temperature was lower than expected, though still hotter than any Krakau.
“It appears to have a vestigial tentacle between its lower appendages.”
“Interesting. Do you think it’s prehensile?” MacDonald took her pod in for a closer look. The human limped from the broken doorway into the fading sunlight. A mass of tangled black fronds—hair—hung from its scalp, partially obscuring the facial features. Dark scars crisscrossed its pale skin, as if it had been savaged by a deepwater spine serpent. “I think it’s injured.”
Alouette played MacDonald’s recorded greeting message again, adding, “We can heal your clarinets.”
More humans emerged from other shelters and trudged toward the two pods.
“I think we have a problem.” Alarm sharpened Alouette’s words. The humans balled their upper extremities and slammed them against the Krakau pods.
MacDonald curled the tip of one tentacle around a small control rod and pulled. As the weapons came online, the interior brightened, turning the vivid green of an abyss serpent’s threat display. “Command, we’re surrounded by a school of hostile humans. I see no way to extract ourselves from the situation without harming them.”
The response from the Krakau ship in orbit was short and sharp. “We’re monitoring your situation. Fight well.”
MacDonald froze. “Command, say again?”
“We’re receiving similar reports from other teams. Take whatever actions are necessary to escape. These humans are far more dangerous than we were led to believe. Good luck.”
—From the First Contact Logs of Krakau Explorers Old MacDonald and Alouette
(collected posthumously)
“I THINK I’VE FOUND plasma beam firing controls,” Monroe announced. “According to the user guide, I can use keyboard, toggle, and voice options to adjust intensity and duration. Targeting . . . that needs to interface with our scanners. Grom, send me external scanner data!”
“I’m trying!” Even over the comm, Mops could hear the rattling anxiety in Grom’s voice. “Try this?”
The main screen switched to a “top-down” map of the system, with the primary star and planets labeled. The Pufferfish was a blue dot of light. A short distance away, a swarm of green sparks crawled toward the ship.
“You sent it to the main bridge display.” Monroe continued fighting with his console. “I need that feed at Tactical!”
“Sir, that’s more than six ships,” said Kumar.
“I know.” Mops gritted her teeth. “I think we’re looking at a missile barrage.”
Wolf jumped to her feet. “I saw something about evasive maneuvers. I can—”
“The missiles will just follow us,” said Monroe. “We need countermeasures. Jamming and hacking their guidance, decoys to pull them off target, and a flareburst for anything that keeps coming.”
“Do you know how to do any of that?” asked Mops.
“Not yet.” He raised his voice. “And not without scanner data!”
“I’m working on it,” Grom shouted back.
Mops turned to her right. “Kumar, what about an A-ring jump to get us out of range?”
“We’re too far in-system. The sun’s gravity would shear the ship apart. Also, I haven’t gotten to A-ring jumps yet. I’m pretty sure I’d blow up the whole ship.”
“Monroe, give me plasma weapon controls,” said Mops. “You focus on those countermeasures.”
Another part of her console lit up, showing plasma beam intensity and duration. Default firing setting was a quarter-second burst at ten-percent power. Nowhere did she see a convenient button labeled Link Targeting to Scanners. A soft-glowing green button drew her attention. Probably the firing controls. She tapped it once . . . twice.
Most plasma weapons were invisible, but the screen displayed a white line showing the path and duration of the shot, streaking off into empty space.
“I think I’ve got thrusters,” Kumar shouted. “I haven’t figured out gravitational compensators yet, but if I keep the power at five percent, I can move the ship without killing everyone on board.”
Five percent was better than nothing. “Bring us about to” —she double-checked the scanners—“thirty-five degrees starboard, minus ten degrees declination.”
Kumar stared at the controls like they’d sprouted mold. “Um . . .”
Mops pointed to the viewscreen. “The front of the ship is this way. Turn us thirty-five degrees to the right”—she moved her arm to illustrate, then lowered it—“and drop us down ten.”
“Right.” He hesitated. “You should probably secure yourselves.”
Mops searched the captain’s station for a harness attachment point, but the safety equipment here was designed for Krakau, not humans. How did Battle Captain Cervantes and his team do it? She settled for crouching next to one bar and wrapping an arm around another. She braced her other hand against the console.
The Pufferfish lurched about, coming roughly into alignment with the incoming missiles. She fired again, sending a plasma beam in the direction of their enemies. She missed by less than five degrees. Which, at this range, translated to tens of thousands of kilometers. Even with targeting, it would have been an impossible shot.
“We could take one of the Pufferfish’s shuttles,” Grom suggested over her comm. “We might be able to evade the Prodryans and escape to the colony.”
“Do you know how to fly a shuttle?”
Silence. Then, “Never mind. I’ll keep working on scanners. I think I’ve isolated Monroe’s console.”
“I’ve got the tactical feed,” whooped Monroe. “Initiating countermeasures.”
The main screen lit up like fireworks as small probes spat from the ship, spoofing heat and energy signatures, attempting to interfere with guidance systems, and generally making an electronic nuisance of themselves.
“Kumar, we’re still turning.”
“I know, sir,” he said. “I shut off the thrusters, but—”
“Physics, Kumar,” she snapped. “We’re in space. An object in motion is going to stay in motion.”
“Remember your zero-gee training,” Monroe added, without looking up from his console. “It’s like that. Only instead of you ricocheting around in a training gym, it’s the whole ship.”
“If the Prodryans can see us, they’re probably laughing their asses off,” muttered Wolf.
“Prodryans don’t laugh,” said Monroe.
The incoming missiles passed through their countermeasures. Many of the green dots blinked out . . . but not all of them. Mops tightened her grip on the bars. “Monroe, anything else you can throw?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Mops jabbed the firing button again, but the ship had drifted too much, and the beam missed by a wide margin. An instant later, the Pufferfish jolted like it had collided with a small moon.
Another of her screens lit up, this one displaying damage reports. “Three direct hits.”
“What if we ram ’em?” suggested Wolf. “We’ve got thrusters. Just plow through the bastards. It’ll be like stomping cockroaches back on Earth!”
“First, these cockroaches have missiles and other ship-to-ship weaponry,” said Mops. “Second, we’re maneuvering at five percent power. They’d dance around us while they cut the ship to pieces.” She watched the approaching ships on the main screen. “Kumar, are you sure you can’t manage an A-ring jump?”
“I tried a simulation,” he said. “Even if we clear the gravity well, I only completed 0.08 percent of the process before blowing up the ship and killing everyone on board.”
“Good.”
All three turned to
stare at Mops.
“Doc, the Pufferfish shuttles are mounted with A-rings, aren’t they?”
“Four apiece, yes. They only have a fraction of the power of the Pufferfish’s rings, but they’re adequate for interstellar travel.”
Mops stared at the viewscreen. “They know we’re in over our heads. They’re probably expecting us to cut and run. That would be the smart thing to do.”
“I take it we’re not going to do the smart thing?” asked Monroe.
“We’re humans. Why would we start now?” She smiled and started pulling up another tutorial. “Grom, how would you like to play captain?”
“This is Gromgimsidalgak, acting Captain of the EMCS Pufferfish. I have assumed command of the ship. Please respond.”
The Glacidae was clearly terrified, their exoskeleton black and oily from fear secretions. It was similar to the lubricating fluid they secreted to help them dig, but this substance clung to the skin, making it harder for predators to get hold.
The response was slow in coming. When Assault Commander Burns Like Sunspots eventually appeared on the screen, his antennae were flat with annoyance. “What do you want, Glacidae?”
“You can have the Pufferfish and its human crew,” Grom said, spines clicking with fear and urgency. “Let me take a shuttle to the colony. Do what you want with this frost-damned ship and its idiot inhabitants. I’ll even disable the internal security systems for you. I’m one of the software technicians. I can do anything you need. Just let me go!”
“What happened to the humans I spoke with before?”
“Those clumsy, maggot-brained, soft-skinned imbeciles? Your missile barrage disrupted ship’s systems long enough for me to transfer control to the battle hub. They’re sealed in the main bridge, waiting to be questioned or dissected or whatever you want to do with them. I don’t care. All I want is to get away and never have to smell their foul stench again.”
On the bridge, Mops pursed her lips as she listened to the exchange. Grom was certainly getting into the role. She was tempted to tell them to turn it down a notch, but it had been hard enough for Wolf to set up this communications channel. If she did anything but passively watch on her monocle and listen through her suit’s speaker, she had no guarantee her words wouldn’t broadcast to the Prodryan ships.
“We counted four humans on your bridge,” said Burns Like Sunspots. “What happened to the rest of your crew?”
“They went crazy. Even for humans. Some of them even tried to eat me. They’re animals!”
“Very well. Disable all internal security measures, and we will grant your shuttle safe passage. I suggest you hurry. If you are on board when my warriors arrive, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“Thank you, Assault Commander!”
“If you betray me, Glacidae, I will see you baked alive.”
Grom shuddered. “Understood.” There was a brief pause. “Connection closed, Lieutenant.”
Mops checked her console. “Are we sure?” she whispered.
“Completely sure.” Wolf double-checked her console. “Mostly sure.”
Mops watched the screen. The six Prodryan fighters weren’t launching another wave of missiles. So far, so good. “Doc, clear a path so Grom can reach the main shuttle bay. Monroe, figure out if this ship has a self-destruct mechanism.”
Her team fell silent, staring at her.
“I am not letting that pastel-winged pirate have our ship or our crew. If all goes well, we won’t need to use it. But Lady Luck has been crapping all over us so far today.”
“Who’s Lady Luck?” demanded Wolf.
Mops rubbed her forehead. “I’m adding Earth literature and history to your duty rosters when this is over.” She returned her attention to the paused tutorial on her console, practicing the command sequence for remote shuttle control override.
The Krakau built limited, short-range override capability into all smaller ships as insurance against human pilot error. She didn’t have a clue how to fly the thing, but if Burns Like Sunspots did his part, that shouldn’t be a problem.
And if not, well, even if the Pufferfish lacked a formal self-destruct mechanism, it shouldn’t be too hard to blow up the ship. From what she’d seen of her team’s tutorial scores, all she needed was to turn them loose for five minutes, and that would be the end of the Pufferfish and anything else within a hundred thousand kilometers.
“I’m sure this time,” said Grom. “Try it now.”
Mops tapped the sequence that should have initiated shuttle three’s launch sequence. A green error message flashed on her console. Blast fence improperly angled. Reset and try again.
Dammit. “How far out are those fighters?”
“A hundred and twenty thousand kilometers,” said Monroe.
Mops glared at her consoles. “Grom, have you disengaged the locks on shuttle three?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s positioned for launch, and the bay doors are open?”
“That’s right.”
She tried again, this time receiving a new message. Premature injection error. Initiating propellant reclamation and resetting helicon array. Ten minutes to engine reset.
In theory, shuttles could launch using either conventional thrusters or grav-wave engines, but the latter was riskier, due to interactions with the Pufferfish’s internal gravity. Mops had no idea how to shut down the grav plates in the main bay for such a launch.
Rather, she didn’t know how you were supposed to shut down shuttle bay grav plates. She spun to bring up the familiar maintenance control screen on her console. “Grom, do you know anything about grav engines?”
“In games or in real life?”
“Never mind.” Mops attacked the controls, pulling up the safety menus and triggering an electrical fire alarm in the shuttle bay. The computer pointed out that the bay was currently depressurized, and no signs of fire had been detected. Both valid points, which Mops ignored as she confirmed the alarm.
“Sir,” yelped Grom. “Everything inside the shuttle bay just went dead.”
“Good.” Mops braced herself. “Kumar, boost the ship’s aft starboard thrusters to ten percent.”
Her stomach lurched as the Pufferfish began to spin. “Grom, can you see the shuttle?”
“We’ve got emergency lights. It’s just sitting there. Floating, I guess. We lost gravity, too.”
Mops glanced at Kumar. “Push it to fifteen percent.”
“What’s going on?” asked Grom.
“Physics.” Mops clutched her console. “We’re using the ship as a sling to launch the shuttle.”
“It’s moving!” Grom shouted. “Sliding toward the bay doors. Ten meters . . . five . . . It’s out!”
“Good. Cut thrusters, Kumar.”
The Pufferfish continued to spin, but at least it wasn’t accelerating. She watched the main screen, where shuttle three floated away from the Pufferfish in the general direction of the incoming fighters. With luck, the Prodryans would assume its wobbly course was a malfunction.
“Grom, shut the bay doors.” Mops studied the controls, trying to figure out how to stabilize the shuttle’s course. It toppled slowly end over end. Piloting a shuttle was simpler than piloting a cruiser, but Mops hadn’t been trained in either, and ten minutes of “Puffy’s” tutorial didn’t change that.
“Prodryans are at one hundred thousand kilometers and closing,” said Monroe.
Mops touched the blinking icon on her console that represented shuttle three. She double-checked her notes from the tutorial and pressed four more buttons to try to restart the shuttle’s thrusters.
Six minutes to engine reset.
She switched to grav-wave engines. Shuttle three sputtered sideways, going into a kind of forward tumble in the general direction of the Prodryans. “Doc, project the shuttle’s course relative to
those fighters.”
Monroe popped his gum. “It’s not going to get close enough to do anything.”
“Not on its own, no.” Mops climbed out of the captain’s station. “Kumar, get over here.”
Kumar hesitated. “You want me to take command?”
“No.” She gestured him into place. “That third console is currently tied into the shuttle’s navigational controls. Don’t touch anything yet!”
“Sorry!” Kumar jerked his hands back.
“Ninety thousand kilometers,” said Monroe. “Sir, they’re changing course. Moving to intercept the shuttle.”
Mops sat on the floor, one arm hooked around the bars of the captain’s station. “They just deployed a brand-new bioweapon against the Pufferfish. You think they’re going to let a single witness fly off to warn the Alliance?”
“They plan to kill me?” Grom squawked indignantly.
“You know you’re not actually on the shuttle, right?” asked Wolf.
“Yes, but . . .”
“I doubt they plan to kill you,” said Mops. “Not right away.”
Wolf turned. “Why not?”
“Remember when we got that new robot toilet snake three months back? You don’t start with full deployment. You start with a controlled test to see how well it works. If it fails, you have to figure out why it failed.”
“That’s easy,” said Kumar. “It failed because Second Officer Seville was celebrating her offspring’s promotion that week, and the snake wasn’t up for unclogging the end results of her celebratory Krakau shellfish surprise.”
Wolf twisted around. “If the Prodryan bioweapon is the robot snake in this scenario, doesn’t that make us—”
“The Prodryans need to figure out why we didn’t succumb like the rest of the crew. That means keeping Grom and the rest of us alive for questioning and study.” Mops watched the relative distances decrease. “I wouldn’t think too hard about the rest of the analogy.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t give those snakes AI modules,” said Doc. “If anything would spark a machine uprising . . .”