Terminal Alliance

by Jim C. Hines

  The docking bay was a broad central shaft through the core of the mountain. They emerged from the air lock onto a sturdy walkway and observation platform. Quil bobbed his beak, pointing to a transparent lift tube to their right.

  Mops moved to the edge of the observation platform instead. A clear wall, filmed with dust and smears from dozens of species, prevented anyone from falling. They’d emerged near the base of the station. Outside, a tower that appeared to be made of rippling sapphire stretched as high as she could see. Shifting lights within the glass formed images and alien letters, which Doc translated into advertisements for everything from exotic clothing to entertainment implants to animated tattoos.

  She glanced at Wolf, who shrugged and said, “Yeah, I got my ink on this station. Not this tower, though. There’s a Glacidae in Tower Two who does great work at half the price.”

  “According to the courtesy map download, this is Tower Three,” said Doc. “We’re on level two, near the bottom. The station is segmented into six towers, each with six levels. The higher you go, the more expensive everything gets.”

  “This way,” Quil said, flashing an impatient lavender.

  The lift played a soft, unremarkable melody as they descended to level one. They emerged between the amethyst tower and a smoky red one to the left, which Doc tagged as Tower Two. Small booths and tents were spread across the rocky ground between the towers, an open-air market that smelled of grease and sweat and alien excretions. The air was cold enough to raise bumps on Mops’ skin.

  Aliens of every variety cleared a path as the Quetzalus led them between the towers, toward the outer edge of the station. A group of Nusurans ducked into a tent whose holographic walls played a pixelated loop of purple waves crashing against a ruby beach. A furry creature with nine legs scampered across their path, chasing a ratlike thing with a hard, spiral shell. Overhead, a pair of Prodryans glided on mechanically enhanced wings.

  “How many people are here at any given time?” she asked.

  “Coacalos Station has a maximum capacity of twelve thousand,” Quil said automatically. “We pride ourselves on providing accommodations suitable for every species. Humans will be most comfortable with the environmental conditions of Tower Five. Not that we have many human guests.”

  So many beings from so many different species, and the only thing they had in common was the way they shied back from Mops and her team. A plump, green-tinged Glacidae dropped flat and scampered into the nearest booth. A trio of Krakau shrank away. A Nusuran froze, the bulk of her body hidden behind a rustling tent.

  Doc enhanced and translated the whispers as they walked:

  “Don’t stare. Humans take that as a challenge.”

  “Humans take everything as a challenge.”

  “Is it true they can’t be killed?”

  “I can smell them from here.”

  “I hear they eat the flesh of their enemies.”

  “On Earth, they survive by eating their own young.”

  “Why are they here?”

  Quil had said they had humans working on the station, but it was obvious most of these people had rarely seen one up close. Their stares made her skin itch, and she fought the impulse to check her weapons. Merely shifting a hand toward one of her pistols would probably send the gawkers into a panicked stampede.

  If she was this tense . . . she glanced at Wolf, whose shoulders were hunched nearly to her ears. “At ease,” she said quietly. “They’re just curious.”

  “I’m used to it,” Wolf muttered. “Usually, I pick a fight to break the tension and get them to stop staring.”

  “And we wonder why humans have such a reputation for violence.”

  After what felt like close to a kilometer, they reached another lift, this one with metal doors and a security console to one side. A single human stood guard in the shadows, dressed in dark green and holding a rifle with a serrated bayonet. A heavy helmet completely obscured the human’s head. The human didn’t move as Quil tapped his beak on the security pad and whispered something into the speaker.

  The lift door slid open with a heavy clunk. Another Quetzalus head-butted Mops from behind, knocking her several steps forward.

  Mops turned slowly and folded her arms. Any appearance of weakness would make it that much harder to negotiate with the Coacalos family. To her left, she saw Monroe rest his hand on his combat baton. She gave him a slight shake of her head.

  The Quetzalus who’d pushed Mops drew herself taller. “Keep walking, human.”

  Instead, Mops stepped closer and patted the Quetzalus on the leg. Lowering her voice, she said, “I can’t imagine your bosses would be happy about you starting a brawl before they’ve heard what we have to say, which tells me that bit of rudeness was for show. Trying to make yourself look tough by shoving the human around. Who are you trying to impress?”

  The Quetzalus quickly suppressed a green glow, but Mops saw the way her attention shifted.

  “Oh, I see.” Mops checked to make sure the other Quetzalus weren’t listening. “You have a thing for Quil. Isn’t he a bit young for you?”

  She opened her mouth and flashed a glowing blue tongue, a sign of distress.

  “My lips are sealed,” whispered Mops. “You just mind your manners.”

  The Quetzalus blinked, then gave a slow, human nod.

  “The Family is waiting,” said Quil, bobbing his head toward the lift.

  They descended again, this time emerging in a roomy, well-lit cavern with mossy carpeting—no, that was real moss. Humidity gave the air a heavy feel. Quil led them past scattered, irregularly shaped rock formations. It wasn’t until Mops saw a pair of Quetzalus settled atop one such formation that she realized the rocks were the equivalent of furniture.

  “Wait here.” Quil tromped ahead to speak with the two resting Quetzalus, who stretched their necks and widened their pearl-black eyes to get a better view of the humans. Normally, those eyes were almost invisible, hidden in four recessed sockets just behind the beak. The larger pair saw in black and white, but with great acuity. Only the smaller perceived color, albeit a narrower range than human vision.

  “This is Lazan Coacalos,” said Quil, bobbing his head toward the larger of the two. “Mate of Zan Coacalos and Second of the Coacalos Family.”

  “Second-in-command,” said Doc. “Consider Lazan the commander. Zan Coacalos would be the equivalent of captain.”

  “With him is Ix Lataclox. She’s a specialist in galactic law.”

  A lawyer, in other words. Ix Lataclox had a lighter beak, more yellow than orange, and lacked the crest of the males. As for Lazan, he was the largest Quetzalus Mops had ever seen, more than five meters in height. He probably massed as much as their shuttle. Neither appeared to be armed, but who knew how many weapons pods were hidden throughout the cavern, ready to vaporize hostile visitors.

  “You are Lieutenant Marion Adamopoulos of the EMCS Pufferfish?” asked Lazan.

  “That’s right.”

  Lazan’s head cocked a full ninety degrees. “I assume your cruiser is somewhere in-system?”

  “It is.” There was no point lying about it. They would have noted the A-ring deceleration flare.

  “You say it would be a mistake to turn you over to the EMC and collect the bounty. Explain.”

  “The bounty is a misunderstanding,” said Mops.

  “The EMC says you took the Pufferfish after the rest of the crew was incapacitated or killed, and that you disobeyed orders to return to Earth.”

  “That part’s accurate,” Mops admitted.

  “They also say you may have been involved in the attack against your crew, collaborating with Prodryan agents. You’re described as potential terrorists and traitors to the Krakau Alliance.”

  “The hell we are!” Wolf snapped.

  Mops silenced her with a glare. Wolf clamped her mouth
shut, tension visible in her jaw as she glared at Lazan Coacalos. Beside her, Kumar was crouched on one knee, apparently fascinated by a bit of blue moss. Monroe simply waited, his face impassive, his attention on Mops.

  “I’m flattered Command has such a high estimate of our competence and skill,” said Mops. “But we had nothing to do with that attack. If we hadn’t been suited up to fix a cracked sewer line, we’d have been affected by the same weapon that took out the rest of the crew.”

  Ix Lataclox lowered her head to human eye-level. “The bounty is not contingent on your guilt or innocence. And the potential cost of harboring Alliance refugees is severe.”

  “Oh, we’re not here to hide,” laughed Mops. “And I guarantee the cost of not helping us will be higher.”

  A wave of orange rippled over Lazan’s body.

  “Does the Alliance bounty on us say anything about how my crew was disabled?” asked Mops.

  “It does not,” said Ix.

  “The Prodryans used a biological weapon. A weapon that caused the humans to revert to a feral state. They killed the nonhuman members of our crew, all save one.”

  Lazan pulled back slightly.

  “The attackers came from this station,” Mops continued. “Whatever the cost of harboring Alliance refugees, how does that compare to the backlash when the Alliance finds out you’ve been harboring bioterrorists?”

  “We know nothing of any such bioterrorists,” protested Ix.

  “The consequences aren’t contingent on your knowledge.” Mops shrugged. “Once the Alliance has inspected the station and interrogated your guests and staff, they’ll probably leave you in peace. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. A month at most.”

  The two Quetzalus glanced at one another.

  “Or you can let us snoop around,” said Mops. “Give us access to your records to see how long the Prodryans were here, who they met with, where they came from—”

  “That information is private,” Ix interrupted. “Neither you nor the EMC have any legal standing on this ship. The confidentiality of our guests is—”

  “How many humans do you have working here?” Mops asked.

  Lazan’s crest flared in annoyance. “Eighteen.”

  Ix muttered something to him.

  “I’m sorry, seventeen. One of our humans recently quit without notice.”

  Mops removed her monocle and faced the concave side toward the closest wall. “Doc, please show our hosts what happened when we went to rescue Grom from Recreation.”

  Bright light shone from the monocle, painting a picture of the Pufferfish’s recreation area on the wall. The irregularity of the wall distorted the image slightly, and the room’s lighting gave the whole thing an orange tint, but it was clear enough.

  Lazan’s long neck stretched closer, until his beak cut a bite-sized shadow from the image. “Those humans. They’re feral?”

  “Bastards would have eaten every last one of us,” said Wolf.

  “Whatever did this to my crew was here,” added Mops. “It could still be here. Your clients are jumpy enough around humans as it is. What do you think would happen if one of those seventeen humans reverted?”

  Kumar cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t be just the one, sir. Remember how quickly this spread through the Pufferfish? If it gets loose here, it would contaminate the whole station. All seventeen would go feral within hours.”

  “Imagine the publicity.” Monroe raised his hands, as if painting a sign. “‘Coacalos Station: It’s been zero days since an employee ate a guest.’”

  “You’re probably calculating the cost of firing and replacing those seventeen humans,” Mops continued. “I’m sure you could afford it. It would be simple enough for you to dispose of us as well, for that matter. But that just makes you look guiltier when the EMC arrives. If a handful of humans figured out the Prodryans were here, it won’t take Command long to do the same. Right now, you have plausible deniability. You can say you didn’t know.”

  Lazan Coacalos’ crest slumped to one side, and his hair pulsed a dull yellow. His attention remained fixed on the battle playing out against the wall. Ix leaned close and murmured something into the small earhole at the base of his neck.

  “I will . . . consult with Zan Coacalos,” said Lazan. “What is your proposal, Marion Adamopoulos?”

  Mops smiled. “To begin with, we’ll need you to waive our docking fee and put us up for a few days. . . .”

  Grom crawled from beneath the navigation console. Wires dangled from open panels like brightly colored roots. Every bridge console now displayed an identical image of the blue hypergiant star, along with the pinpricks of light from other stars, and a blue dot representing the station.

  Clicking happily as they worked, Grom returned to the back of the bridge to grab a customized Glacidae computer console. They slipped the strap over their head. One edge of the console snapped into place against the front of their equipment harness, secured by several powerful magnets.

  The Glacidae’s uppermost legs gripped the sides of the terminal, while their tunneling claws attacked the keys. “Load Pufferfish data storage structure, triptych display.”

  The main directory appeared on the primary viewscreen. Recently accessed subdirectories popped up on the consoles to either side of the main screen.

  Grom quivered with triumph. After two days, they’d finally gotten all the bridge stations talking to one another in proper sequence. Isolated workstations were fine for a fully crewed ship, but without these improvements, it would only be a matter of time before those idiot humans crashed the ship into a supernova.

  Now for the real test. “Verify Gromgimsidalgak, Technician, software and computer support division, EMCS Pufferfish.”

  “Verified,” said the computer, in Grom’s native language.

  Their quivering increased, the plates of their exoskeleton clicking together in excitement. Grom continued typing, digging into their personal data storage subfolder. “Load program ITM-6-Lev3.”

  The bridge lighting dimmed. The file directories vanished, replaced by the dark, icy caves of home. Orange light turned one of the tunnels to glowing glass. A serpentine robot emerged from the tunnel, streaks of flame shooting from its six eyes.

  Words appeared in the air, directly above the robot’s head:

  ICE TUNNEL MINER VI: VIPER’S REVENGE

  ➢ Start New Game

  ➢ Continue Saved Game

  Grom tapped Continue and crawled into the captain’s station. The captain’s console displayed their character’s supplies and stats, while the main screen loaded level three, the glacier hunt.

  With the bridge’s systems linked and devoted to the game engine, and nobody else on board to drain the computer’s resources, the game was more responsive than Grom had ever seen.

  Grom leaned to one side for a sip of methane slushee, then settled in to start blasting robovipers.

  TOWER FIVE WAS BUILT to comfortably house Glacidae, Krakau, and the occasional human. Mops and her team were given space on level one, the “ground floor.”

  The tower’s exterior was a deep brown, almost black, that reminded Mops of obsidian. Her temporary ID badge, hanging from her neck on a thin but surprisingly strong chain of tarnished metal, got them through the doors. A series of blinking lights on the back of the badge pointed the way to their lodging.

  The damp, chilly air greeted them with the smell of brine and the urine of at least three different species. The hallways were rough-carved tunnels coated with cheap brown spray sealant. The light strips stretched down the center of the ceiling and floor were running at half power, but still managed to illuminate every stain. Puddles of water, some up to three centimeters deep, splashed with each step. The noise sent insects retreating into cracks and holes in the wall.

  A loud hiss made her jump. She spun to see Kumar spraying a f
oaming cleanser onto a discolored patch of wall.

  “Don’t bother,” said Mops. “You could scrub this place until you died of old age, and you wouldn’t put a dent in the mess.”

  Kumar gestured at the walls, outrage and horror momentarily robbing him of words.

  “Save it for our quarters,” suggested Monroe.

  A pair of Krakau emerged from a door up ahead, releasing a low swell of water into the hallway. Most of the water vanished through small, partially clogged grates at the base of the walls. The Krakau spotted the four humans and ducked right back into their room, locking the door behind them.

  “We’re off to the right,” said Mops, following the lights on her badge. They passed an open area to the left where a group of beings watched a knot of at least five Glacidae struggling together. A short distance away, a pair of Quetzalus rested in a pool of foul-smelling, bubbling black liquid. “What is that?”

  “According to the station directory, it’s Tar Bath 2,” said Doc. “They’re not recommended for most species. You would likely survive the temperature extremes, but you wouldn’t enjoy it, and you’d never get the smell out of your hair.”

  A trio of Nusurans skirted past the tar pool. From the size and coloration, Mops guessed them to be a mated group—a hi, a vi, and a si. Their young rode on the back of the eight-legged vi, looking like fat, giggling blue sausages.

  “Over here,” said Kumar, turning down another hallway. He shoved his badge into a slot on the wall, and the door slid open.

  The lights came on automatically, revealing an empty room with six fold-up cot frames built into the far wall. Carved steps in the wall formed a crude ladder for reaching the higher cots. An air vent rattled in the ceiling. A pool of centimeter-deep water shone around the drain in the center of the room.

  Kumar ran a white rag over the closest wall. It came away a waxy yellow color. He sniffed the rag, then scowled. “They used a knock-off sanispray to disinfect this place, but didn’t wash it down properly once the foam dissolved.”

  Mops checked the multispecies bathroom off to the side. The shower facility was a glorified hose, and the toilet was a large bowl in the floor. A set of seats was propped against one wall, each designed for a different species’ needs.