Contact

by Susan Grant

  The Earth leader’s hands shot up, presumably to tear off the conversion-glasses. But she must have recognized the translation of his words scrolling across the inside of the lenses, for her arms froze in midair.

  “What is it, Jordan?” the male crew member demanded, and Kào read the words as they were translated. “It’s too dangerous. Take them off—”

  She waved her hand. “Shush!”

  Kào continued slowly, enunciating each word. “Using that database,” he explained, “and what was collected in recording your conversations within your vessel, the ship’s linguist was able to translate much of your language into ours, Key. Do you see the words I speak in my language presented as captions in yours?”

  Streams of data flickered behind the leader’s lenses. Her lips parted slightly as she took in information that he hoped she’d comprehend. “Yes . . .”

  “What’s happening?” her people asked her. “What’s going on?”

  “The glasses are translating his words. I see them floating in front of me.” She tried to reach for them, but of course her fingers closed over nothing but air. “It’s incredible. The technology . . .”

  Her explanation launched intense muttered discussion among the refugees. Some of what Kào heard was translated by the conversion-glasses. Much was lost.

  She gave her people a halting summary of what he’d said. Mayhem followed. Not all of what they said translated properly. He watched their body language and guessed that they were arguing about his origins.

  One of the females dressed similarly to the leader made a panicky sound of dismay. She tucked her arms to her chest and blurted, “Heaven help us. He’s an alien!”

  “Oh, puhleeze,” another uniformed woman said. She was taller, darker-skinned, and sported long, curved claws on the ends of her fingers. “He looks too human to be an alien.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like a terrorist, either.”

  “What exactly does a terrorist look like, Ann, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  The shorter, rounder female’s gaze settled on him. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “He just doesn’t look . . . evil.”

  Her companion snorted. “Right. Ted Bundy’s dates said that about him, too.”

  The Earth leader made a sound of exasperation. With her forearm she wiped damp hair away from her forehead and exchanged a glance with her male co-worker that revealed her impatience with her crew. She appeared to have control of these people, but on the fringes disorder simmered. Babies cried and older children whined; the air was thick with odors; adult voices combined in hushed conversation and shouts. Body odor was rife. So many people of so many ages and backgrounds, drawn together by fate. Yet their animated humanity attracted him.

  It occurred to Kào how sterile his shipboard life had been since his release. Orderly, predictable. Not at all like this chaos, this assault on his senses. To his shock, he couldn’t deny that he found the experience fascinating, almost pleasurable, in a way he couldn’t quite grasp. It stirred something deep within him, that much was certain. It was clear that he shared something in common with these people, something that no one else onboard the Savior did.

  They were orphans of destroyed worlds, he and these refugees. Survivors, who could never return home. At the time Moray had rescued him, Kào had been too young to comprehend his loss. But as an adult, he felt it as a deficit in his soul, an intuitive grief that was an integral part of him. Only now, among these Earth survivors, did he have a hunch as to what it was that he’d lost.

  Kào exhaled, laid his aching head back as the noise of the arguing refugees blended with the buzzing in his skull. True, he’d taken on this task because his father had asked. But in doing so, he could assist these displaced people, as Moray had helped him all those years ago.

  “Quiet!” the leader’s male partner shouted. “She can’t concentrate, and he can’t hear her.”

  The noise subsided somewhat. The leader leaned over Kào. “Do you understand me?” she asked.

  He waited for her words to be displayed in Key. “Yes, I do,” he replied.

  She read the translated caption. Then her words came forth in a rush. “Where—? Where are you—?”

  Too fast. He couldn’t understand half the questions. They translated as gibberish. “Speak slower.”

  That appeared to be an effort for her. “Where are we? Where are you taking us? Why are we here?” she asked.

  The crowd of refugees pressing in all around them quieted. Where are we? Where are you taking us? The questions he most dreaded answering were those they most wanted answered, of course.

  “We are aboard the Perimeter Patrol ship Savior, commanded by Commodore-elite Ilya Moray. We came upon your world, Earth, quite by accident. Our normal duty is to range along the Perimeter, the border between the farthest reaches of explored space and the central Alliance worlds.”

  The Earth leader gave a quick, anguished laugh. “That can’t be right.” Her eyes beseeched him to agree.

  “Do not be afraid. You’re safe now. All of you.”

  She sat back on her haunches, her knuckles pressed to her stomach.

  “Jordan, what is it?” her shorter female colleague asked her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her voice held the slightest of trembles, barely discernable, but it was there nonetheless. “He insists that we’re up in space.”

  Several people screamed.

  “Quiet, please,” her cohorts shouted.

  But the leader—Jordan?—didn’t answer. She continued to stare at him over her conversion-glasses. Her cordial demeanor was gone, replaced by shock, fear, and heart-piercing resentment. “You abducted us. You took us on your starship.”

  At that, some cried out; others wept. More voices, louder voices, made it difficult to tell whose words he read.

  “Be quiet!” he shouted. The uproar ceased immediately. His tone they could interpret, if not his words. “You were not abducted. You were rescued.”

  The leader pressed the side of her index finger to her upper lip. Kào’s frankness seemed to have mollified her somewhat, although even after she’d read the translation, he wasn’t certain she believed him. “Explain how you rescued us when there was nothing wrong with our airplane.”

  “Kào—where are you! Report!” A voice emanated from Kào’s wrist comm: loud, demanding. Nasal.

  Blast it all. It was Trist. And she suspected, rightly, that something had gone wrong. He had little doubt that she’d react badly, too. He had to prevent that. “Trist!” he called out, sitting up. The pull of his abdominals was hell on his bruised ribs.

  “I am safe—”

  The flame-haired man with the strange weapon shoved his heel into Kào’s chest and pushed him backward.

  Kào’s head hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The ceiling spun above him. Black spots flooded his vision. But he managed to stay conscious—a talent he’d often cursed during Talagarian torture sessions.

  A scuffle dragged his attention upward. He squinted, trying to focus. Jordan jumped to her feet. “What the hell are you doing, Dillon!” she shouted, shoving Kào’s attacker backward. Her male co-worker stepped between them and took over. Kào adjusted his conversion-glasses and tried to follow the conversation. Too many voices. And the cadence was too swift. But he caught enough of the discussion to follow along—barely.

  “You are not a member of my crew,” Jordan scolded as her co-worker held on to the man’s arm. “Do you understand, Mr. Dillon? You do nothing unless my flight attendants or I order it. Or I swear—I’ll use that AED on your head.”

  The man was clearly surprised by her vehemence. “I thought we didn’t want him talking to his comrades.”

  Jordan pulled off the glasses. “You’ve heard only my half of the conversation. He told his partner that he’s okay—okay? I would have stopped him myself if it had been anything I deemed dangerous. No more interference in my negotiations. None.” Sliding on the glasses, she stalked back to Kào, muttering to
herself. “Everyone’s a vigilante.”

  “I would advise your overeager friend not to try another stunt like that,” Kào told her. He was an expert in unarmed combat, and although he hadn’t practiced his skills lately, he was certain they’d be more than sufficient to knock this nuisance onto his rear.

  After an awkward pause that characterized their caption-guided dialogue, the Earth leader threw a disgusted glance at the flame-haired man. “I’ve dealt with the problem.”

  “Good.” Kào’s ribcage creaked ominously, sending streaks of fire across his chest and abdominals as he sat up. His ribs had gotten worse. Perhaps they were broken after all.

  “Kào!” It was Trist calling again. “Show me your face. I want proof that you’re all right, or I’m calling security to storm the ship.”

  Blast her impatience! It seemed he, too, was caught dealing with crew members eager to take matters into their own hands. “Stand by, Ensign! Do not send security up here.”

  “Security?” Jordan asked, alarmed. “Do you mean police? Soldiers?”

  “I asked her not to send them,” he said. “In return I ask that you trust me.”

  Kào placed his hand over her forearm in a gesture meant to convey sincerity. The damp heat of her skin raced up his arm. They jerked away from each other—Jordan regarding him as she touched her fingers to the place where he’d laid his hand, and he confounded by the awareness that had sparked between them. But now was not the time or place to reflect on the matter.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m going to go to the doorway now and show myself, so that my people see that I am safe. But you’ll need to release me.”

  She conferred with her crew. Then a male co-worker broke off from the group and freed Kào’s ankles from the binding.

  “Ensign Pren!” Kào called out. “I’m coming to the exit now. Do not take any action. I repeat, do not take any action.” As he climbed to his feet, his extremities tingling and sore, the interior of the Earth vessel plunged into darkness.

  Chaos erupted all over again.

  Fury and betrayal blazed in Jordan’s eyes. “What the hell is happening?”

  But darkness had strangled their ability to communicate with the glasses. Fortunately, his comm still worked. He bellowed, “Trist! I said hold off! That’s an order—hold off!”

  Too late. Kào felt as if he were floating. And not from hitting his head. A feeling of lightness, of well-being, often accompanied the use of sedative gas.

  By the Seeders—who had given Trist the right to make such a decision? Her hasty actions would destroy the fragile bridge of trust formed between him and the refugees.

  In the midst of the confusion, he heard the Earth leader pleading for composure. “Everyone, keep calm! Panic is not going to help . . .” Her voice slurred and trailed off. The screams quieted. Even the babies’ cries ceased. The drug was taking hold.

  “Lie down.” Kào fumbled for and caught the leg of Jordan’s trousers, tugging her to the floor. It was better that she went down while she still had the wherewithal to break her fall than to pass out and risk injury.

  Her struggle to regain her feet was fleeting. An objecting sigh escaped her, and she sagged to the floor next to him. Kào had only a moment to ponder the dozens of possible ways he envisioned throttling Trist before he, too, spun into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Eight

  An entire third of a shipboard day later, Kào stormed toward Commodore Moray’s main meeting room adjacent to and within sight of the bridge. Stormed was an optimistic description of his gait, however, as his legs were as wobbly as göhta fronds.

  A few men and women who Kào recognized as key members of his father’s smallish crew filed out past him. Clearly, there had been a meeting in his absence. He wondered if the refugee situation had been handed over to someone more appropriate to the task. A few thirds ago, he would have hoped for such a development. But now he was determined to see the matter to its successful conclusion. Stubborn pride or masochism? Only time would tell.

  Halting outside the entry as the room emptied, he massaged the back of his neck and cast an impatient glance at the doctor who had trailed him from medical. Even though Kào had walked under his own power, the physician had insisted on accompanying him. Everyone was prone to coddling the commander’s son, he supposed, even one who was a failure. The situation was reminiscent of his boyhood, and one reason he had been so eager to strike out on his own, joining the Alliance Space Defense Force at the minimum age to become a weapons officer.

  “Please, Mr. Vantaar-Moray, sit down. You’ve only just woken.”

  “I have duties that cannot wait,” Kào told the physician without the impatience he felt. The man was only doing his job. True, his ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his back was stiff, but that was as much from having to deal with exasperating, irrational, and unpredictable people all blasted day with no respite as it was from the aftereffects of the gas. Once he got in a full sleep cycle—true sleep, not drugged unconsciousness—and some blessed hours of solitude, he’d recover. But for now, sleep would have to be put off.

  “You are dismissed,” he told the doctor in as kindly a tone as he could manage. “I no longer need your assistance.”

  The man’s hesitation was evident. “But—”

  “If I need you I will call,” Kào assured him and strode into the meeting room.

  Only his father, Trist, and two aides—one of them also of Talagar ancestry, Kào noted cheerlessly—remained inside. His father and the aides were in deep discussion at the far end of the room and didn’t notice his entry. Trist sat at a large rectangular table made from rare, naturally phosphorescent wood that was the showpiece of a conference room that was infinitely serene in its understated luxury. Moray’s quarters, as well as Kào’s and those of the senior members of the crew, were similarly equipped. No one could ever accuse his father of not traveling in style.

  As Kào neared the ensign, he saw that she studied a primitive computer taken from the Earth vessel. To her left sat a pile of discarded devices, stacked one on top of another. Something told Kào that the machines were no longer functional. And he wondered what the former owners would think of that fact once they learned of it. “It’s time for us to have a little talk, Ensign Pren.”

  She straightened so quickly he feared she’d fall off the chair. “You startled me.”

  “Apparently,” he said dryly. He walked to the table and leaned back against it, arms folded over his stomach. Trist’s slitted red eyes watched him warily. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of the Talagars who had tortured him and killed his friends. “Your use of sedative gas was disruptive. You’re a scientist, not a soldier.”

  “We had reason to believe you were in danger.”

  “I responded on the comm. I asked you not to use the gas.”

  “Your father thought otherwise.”

  Kào’s lecture faltered. “My father . . .”

  “Yes.” Her chin lifted a notch.

  So that’s who had given the order. An odd feeling of betrayal replaced Kào’s anger. But it was unfair to blame the man for wanting to preserve what was precious to him.

  His only heir.

  Long before Moray had adopted Kào, he’d lost his wife and two children in a Talagarian slaver raid. For Moray, rearing Kào had been an unexpected second chance at being a father. As such, the commodore was fiercely protective. It made sense that he’d do all he could to assure his adopted son’s safety.

  On the other hand, Trist knew that. In true Talagarian fashion, she had likely taken advantage of that to resolve the standoff as she wanted.

  He swerved his attention back to her. “What is the status of the refugees?”

  Trist appeared to consider her words before answering. “I just now gave the order to have them removed from their vessel.”

  “You gave the order?”

  “You were unconscious—”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “If I’d know
n you’d be up so soon . . .” She cleared her throat. “Not being clear on your status, I took action, as I felt that continued sedation was not in the best interests of the refugees’ health.”

  “Ah. At least there is one decision you have made—all on your own—that I agree with.” He walked away from the table. “And the leader is with them?”

  “Yes. I didn’t ask for her to be separated out. The refugees haven’t been revived yet.”

  “You’re moving them as they sleep?”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” she protested.

  “If you don’t mind being treated like a box of freight.”

  Her silence only exacerbated his burgeoning irritation. “I’m going down there to oversee the operation. And to find the leader. We need to involve her in the process. Blast it, Trist. They’re her people.”

  He took a step and then stopped. “I came here intending to take you off the assignment.”

  Alarm tightened her features.

  “But I need you,” he explained bluntly. “Or, more precisely, I need the language instruction program you’re developing. So I’ll keep you on the project. For now. The refugees must begin learning Key immediately. But the situation, unstable as it is, gives me no choice but to bar you from unsupervised contact with them. Is that understood?”

  Her lavender-tinted lips thinned. “Yes.” Her hands flattened on the table. She sat there, staring at her fingers.

  Poor, misguided female, he thought. Didn’t she know that he wasn’t able to conjure the emotion required to feel sorry for her? His time in Talagar custody had assured that. “Contact me on the comm the moment the language instructional is ready.” He forced himself to add, “I do appreciate your expertise in the matter.”

  He felt her eyes on him as he walked to where his father stood with his aides. The room was so expansive that the man didn’t hear Kào’s approach until he was nearly at his side.

  Moray’s face lit up. “Ah—he returns to life!” The commodore’s booming voice sounded jolly but his eyes reflected his concern. “I didn’t expect you to be up and about so soon. You had two cracked ribs.”