Mira Fedor had spoken of the Araldis studium many times. From overhearing bits of her conversation with Randall and Thales Berniere, Jo-Jo had learned how she had studied geneering and astrography at the same time as her degree in alien genera and literature. Only a determined individual would pursue such a workload. And despite her apparent physical fragility, Mira Fedor was definitely that.
He remembered her frequent stoushes with Randall, and understood her frustration. The mercenary could be so pragmatic and capable, and then with the curl of her lip turn moody and stubborn.
‘Shouldn’t take too long, there and back,’ said Randall, craning to get the ‘scope around the edge of the door.
‘Me too, this time, Capo?’ asked Catchut.
She shook her head. ‘Not till you stop getting the sweats, Cat. You’ll dehydrate too quick.’
Catchut made a frustrated noise and smacked his palm against the wall. The mere hadn’t taken well to being an invalid.
‘What if we run into Saqr?’ asked Jo-Jo, ignoring Catchut’s tantrum.
‘Been thinkin’ ‘bout that. Need something to even the odds a bit if we do. Normal weapons don’t work so well, their exoskel is too tough,’ said Randall.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Need to get into the studium. Fedor said she studied alien genera there. Gotta be info about the Saqr in their data films. Something we can use on them. If the data sys in this place was workin’, we could access the studium sys from here. But it ain’t, so we gotta get up there.’ She pointed to the impressive expanse of architecture up near the crest of the mountain.
‘Which first, then?’
‘We split it. You go to the studium, I look for an AiV.’
Jo-Jo stared at her, not sure what to make of her plan. What did Randall really have in mind? Was she planning to find some transport and fly out to the islands, leaving him behind?
‘Get that paranoid look off your face.’ She slapped him on the back. ‘If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have done it long before this. We need an edge on the Saqr. Think about it. If we find the survivors, what we gonna do? Hide out with them until we all get old and die? We want to get the hell outta here or, failing that, we try and take the place back.’
She handed the ‘scope over to Catchut. He was using his leg more, but a fever beset him every evening, as though something foreign from the Extro ship had entered his body, through the broken skin on his ankle. ‘And I’m thinkin’ that there won’t be any help coming for us. OLOSS looks like it’s got too many of its own damned problems.’
‘What about Farr?’
Randall rubbed her eyes with yellow-stained fingers. Their skin was still carrying the taint of the Extro fluid they’d been trapped in. ‘Carnage will do what suits him. And that can change quicker than you and I can spit.’
Jo-Jo grunted. Randall was right on that score. Farr could be counted on not to be counted on, especially if Mira Fedor had disappeared. He’d no longer be tied to their agreement—if Farr could be tied to anything.
Randall was also right about the Saqr. If they managed to find any survivors, then they needed to have a plan. Like the mercenary, Jo-Jo had no intention of seeing out his days on this lonely scorching dust bowl.
‘Agreed,’ he said.
She almost grinned. Her mouth moved in that configuration, but he hadn’t seen any real humour in Randall since they’d escaped the Medium. The Extro experience had changed something in her, hardened even her sense of humour.
‘You’re not too stupid, for a mappie,’ she said.
Jo-Jo made a throaty noise at the derogatory term for astro-surveyors. ‘Mineral scout,’ he corrected. ‘We get our hands dirty.’
The tension eased between them a little, and they were back in a place of understanding. Jo-Jo knew it could—would—change at any moment, but he let himself relax. Crux, they’d been through enough together, and Randall owed him. He didn’t exactly trust her, but he knew she wouldn’t forget what he’d done.
The three walked back to the galley and ate the last of some rehydrated butter beans. Then, by unspoken consensus, they took up seats at the back of one of the bigger offices that faced out onto the plains, to watch the sun go down.
‘For a merciless lump of rock and sand, it’s a shittin’ pretty sunset,’ Catchut proffered.
Jo-Jo and Randall stared at him. For Catchut, that was close to poetry.
‘Yeah. It also means we should be heading out,’ said Randall. She stood up and stretched, overly lean but still taut. Her hair had grown and had begun to curl around her shoulders. In the weeks that Jo-Jo had known her, he’d never once thought of her as a woman. He didn’t know what that meant. It just was.
‘Keep the home fires burning, Cat,’ said Randall.
‘Don’t think so, Capo. Less you want to trash the whole mountainside.’
She nodded. ‘Damn good place to breathe decent air. Damn terrible place for fires.’ She hooked a water bottle onto her belt and beckoned Jo-Jo. ‘Remember that.’
* * *
He crawled behind Randall until they reached the rocky scree they’d seen through the ‘scope. From there, she split off from him and headed down, towards a modest villa that appeared only partly damaged by fire.
Jo-Jo continued upward in a straightish line, his sights set on the huge shadow of the Araldis studium. The gardens were so immense that he reached them a long while before the buildings.
Before the invasion, Randall said that they had been protected by a climate bubble. Since the Saqr landed, the bubble had been disengaged, and the once-lush gardens were now a series of dead tree trunks and dusty grottos. The water had evaporated from the recycled fountains, and the lawns had returned to their natural state: slippery screes of rock.
He threaded between the fountains, using them as cover to watch for Saqr. Their observations through the ‘scope had told them that the creatures seemed to randomly move among the Latino ruins. Not organised patrols, Randall said. There was little enough to do but forage on a planet like this, once the first ready food source was gone. Which meant that any Saqr they encountered would be hungry.
They’d timed their foray to travel before the moons had risen, and it was hard to see any detail on the facade of the main building. There was a portico, he thought, judging by the columns, which meant inside stairs or lifts.
The last stretch of garden seemed to be open space, perhaps even a games pad or informal gathering area. The ‘scope didn’t reveal any boulders or ditches, so he risked jogging toward the portico, making it to the first arch without incident.
The exertion had him breathing hard though, sweating copiously onto his fellalo’s insulation. He stopped to catch his breath, and then felt his way along the wall until he reached a set of narrow stairs. A servants’ entry, perhaps. He stepped onto them, and a dull light flared, sending him jumping back.
Sweat poured from him. He could feel it running down his arms and legs as the robe worked to redistribute it and cool his skin. If the Saqr saw the light, they’d be here soon. He turned and hurried back along the portico to the huge main doors. They were slightly ajar and he cursed himself for not trying them first.
He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. The biggest staircase he’d ever seen dominated the circular entrance hall, and grand carved doorways led away from it. He walked along them, trying to decipher the signs.
BIBLIOTECA. Randall had suggested he try the library ports to access the data banks. ‘There might be some life in them yet, if they’re not damaged. Most things here are solar powered,’ she’d said.
He pushed the door open and found himself in a chamber lit by the dull glow of emergency lights running on their last dregs. It was filled with rows and rows of seats, divided down the middle by an inactive escalator.
He sat down at one and flashed the ‘scope’s lamp for long enough to see the array of interface options. He chose the simplest audio download, hoping it still worked.
The overwhelming and ridiculous nature of his sentiment for her had begun to fade; perhaps it had only been a moment of lust for one of the most decent and refined women he’d met in his life. And yet an equally powerful yearning had replaced it, a yearning for something he would never have. Maybe those moments in space, without air, had done more than scare him. Maybe he’d lost part of his mind, then.
Come on, he urged the library, talk to me.
‘Choose from the menu,’ crackled a faint voice in his ear.
Jo-Jo’s heart lurched. ‘Alien genera,’ he said after listening. ‘Saqr.’
He asked for the summary overview.
Tardigrada giantus... relative of arthropods... segmented bodies... eight legs...
Nothing new there. ‘Dietary needs. Reproduction. Special qualities,’ he asked.
Polyextremophiles that are known to survive in extreme environments.
‘More detail.’
‘Tardigrada giantus can withstand maximum temperatures of 151 °C (424 K), through to minimums of -200°C (70 K). Dehydration: Tardigrada giantus have been shown to survive for decades in a dry state. Radiation: Tardigrada giantus can withstand median lethal doses of 5,000 Gy (gamma-rays) and 6,200 Gy (heavy ions) in hydrated animals. Pressure range: vacuum through to more than 1,200 times Cerulean atmospheric pressure. Environmental toxins—’
‘End.’
The audio stopped.
If humanesques could do even half of that... ‘Main menu.’
The response was sluggish.
‘Visual map of Araldis,’ he requested.
He studied the dull image on the film that unfolded from his armrest. ‘Southern sector. Islands.’
Thousands of tiny dots scattered across the screen. The survivors could be on any one of them. Then again, maybe not, he thought. Some of the islands were little more than dots of sand with scant cover, and the surviving population would need shade and fresh water.
This time Jo-Jo set some search parameters. The library took so long to respond that he became fidgety, thinking at every breath that he could hear the Saqr,
It wasn’t until he was standing up preparing to leave that the search result flashed onto the screen. Only four islands fit the criteria he’d set. Two lay close to the southern axis, too far for the survivors to have reached on yachts or small vessels. The others were across the open water of the Galgos Strait, a dangerous crossing but possible.
The name Galgos scratched at his memory. Mira Fedor had mentioned it, he was sure. The two potential islands were large and according to the map key harboured fresh water. Only one, though, was vegetated. It also had species of fauna not found on the mainland.
He committed the map coordinates to memory and told the search to clear and close. As he made his way from desk to door, a scraping noise drifted across the quiet.
He abruptly changed direction, seeking another exit. Though he could see nothing, the sweet Saqr scent was unmistakable. Something fierce and cold gripped his stomach. How many were out there? Did they know he was here?
He found a narrow door and opened it, stepping through and flattening his body along the wall on the other side. A passage led him to a room that stank of spilled chemicals. More dim emergency lights revealed a number of well-worn com-cast modules, and desk-films languishing on real wood tables. He breathed in air thick with dust. The environmentals were barely functioning in here; heat pooled.
He made his away across the room, looking for another door, but something made him stop and look more closely at one of the com-soles. It was an old-fashioned desk variety, probably used by students who needed to interact with the Vreal studium, or other off- world academics. Mira had mentioned how delayed their farcast signals were, how inadequate—they’d only heard of the Stain Wars after they’d ended. Perhaps if he could get one working, they could pick up signals from OLOSS craft?
He felt along the bottom edge of the com-sole and undipped it from its station. It was light enough, but awkward. How could he get it back without dropping it? He needed his hands free to climb down the more slippery rocks.
A wash of sweet scent wafted in, drowning the smell of the spilled chemicals. The Saqr were close again—outside the room, perhaps. Taking the com-sole, he dropped to the floor and crawled over to the centre of the room, assessing his options.
A rush of air blew on his face as the door opened, and the sweet scent grew chokingly strong. He stifled the instinct to gag and gripped the com-sole tightly. There must be another door, somewhere he could run to.
Scraping sounds on the far side. He held his breath as the noise moved around the perimeter of the room and back. Hard to tell if it was one or more. Don’t look. Don’t move at all.
Silence. Then another shift of air. The door closed.
He sat for a long time, clutching the com-sole, aware only of the sound of his heartbeat and the wetness between his legs. Jo-Jo Rasterovich hadn’t pissed his pants since he was a kid, waiting for his mum to get through an evening with her latest beau. He’d been sitting outside the condo door, in the corridor, playing with a set of chrome jacks. He was four years old.
The loss of control didn’t make him proud, but he wasn’t ashamed either. He’d seen what the Saqr could do. He was no hero.
When he could make his legs function, he got up and quietly searched the room for something to carry the com-sole. It was curiously bereft of incidentals, as if someone had swept through and tidied just before the Saqr invaded.
Instead, he found another door and exited, stealing deeper into the studium until he came upon the kitchens.
Here, things were different. Every pot, pan and sealed storage container had been rifled. Even the rows of cookers down the centre of the room had been damaged, smashed with the force of an axe or hammer.
That didn’t make sense, but he didn’t stop to examine them. Instead, he searched among the debris until he found a length of kitchen tie that had once hung meat, and threaded it through a notch on the com-sole. Tying the ends together, he looped it over his shoulder.
The kitchen, he knew, would have a service entry for food loading. Leaving the studium from the rear meant a much longer walk back, but it would lessen his chances—he hoped—of running into Saqr.
He found the entrance to the service bay at the bottom of the extensive pantry, a roller door with a mechanism to handle inter-gal freight cartons. Alongside the door was a hatch, larger than the average Balol. He pressed spots around the roller pad, and the hatch sprang open. He stepped through quickly. It took him moments to adjust to the flooding light outside.
He looked for the moons, but neither had risen. The night skies of Araldis, though, were filled with a flotilla of tiny star-bright objects.
Jo-Jo blinked a few times to see if they went away, but the objects remained above him, cruising in a serene orbit. Instinct told him to get back to Randall and Catchut quickly. If they could get the com-sole working, maybe they could find out what the Crux was happening up there.
MIRA
Even this remote arm of the landing port teemed with activity. Mira threaded her way through queues and past kiosks selling credit exchange and transport vouchers. Ahead, she saw the crowds streaming onto four different conveyors. The signs hanging above them confused her, so she stopped at a seedy kaffe, which served pastries swimming in liquid and oversized cups of dark mokka, and asked directions.
The attendant was unobliging and distracted, his eyes flicking between a man at a corner table and a spot on the opposite side of the transit court, where an unmistakable, roughly dressed figure stood towering head and shoulders above the rest.
Fariss O’Dea would stand out in any crowd, on any world, thought Mira. Something the soldier must’ve found a mixed blessing.
But w
ho was the man at the table? Mira observed his aquiline nose, large ears and smooth complexion. Something about his looks stirred her memory. She’d never seen him before, but...
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the attendant in crisper, more authoritative tones. ‘I believe I know the gentleman on the far table. I’ve forgotten his name. Would you by any chance be able to tell me what it is?’
The attendant blinked at her, taking a moment to make sense of her words and assimilate them into his thoughts.
‘You callin’ him a gennelm’n means you can’t know him too well, missus.’ He began to stack cups into a washer.
‘His name, prego!’ Mira snapped. Insignia’s need for urgency crawled along her skin. She didn’t have time to stop for this, but something told her it was important.
The attendant shot her a glowering look. ‘It changes all the time. You want somethin’ or what? I’m busy.’
Mira glanced behind her. A queue was starting to build. She moderated her tone. ‘Please. I think he might owe my husband money. Just tell me his name, and I’ll go.’
The attendant glanced at the newborn baby in her arms and relented. ‘Gutnee’s a common name he uses. But, like I said, it changes. Now move. Please.’
Mira nodded her thanks and stepped away from the counter. Her stomach churned. She knew that name; Thales Berniere had said it to her many times. Gutnee Paraburd was the man who’d duped him.
Nova began to cry, a gentle but insistent hunger noise.
Our child is hungry, Mira.
Si. I am close.
Then why do you stop?
I’ve seen the man who duped Thales. He is watching the soldier Fariss.
Insignia made a harsh sound in her mind. You’re being distracted again. Bring Nova to me.
Mira deliberately shut the biozoon’s voice out of her mind and used the cover of passers-by to move closer to Fariss without being seen. The soldier appeared to be loitering, chewing open-mouthed and surveying the patrons from under half-closed lids. She seemed neither threatening nor alert.
Transformation Space (Sentients of Orion Book 4) Page 13