Shadow World

by A. C. Crispin

  "What did you say, honey?" the technician's voice broke into her musings.

  "Nothing." She smiled at the white-coated woman. "I'm ready."

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  Chapter 7 CHAPTER 7

  Rude Awakening

  Mark dreamed he was being shaken like a bug in a jar. Shouts and thumps reached him; there must be trouble somewhere in his dream, but ... who cared? Awareness stumbled woozily through his brain like a drunk looking for a place to lie down.

  Something jabbed him, hissed, then a sudden wash of molten fire scalded his insides. Mark tried feebly to push away the rough hands jerking at him.

  His head smacked something solid, and the double message of pain, from his head and from his gut, jolted him awake.

  Peering painfully through slitted eyelids, he saw that he was half in, half out of the open hiber unit.

  My head hit the top, he thought groggily.

  Hands yanked at him again, dragging him over the side of the unit. He dropped limply to the deck, and the fire rushing through his veins abruptly reversed course, exploding in his stomach. Mark threw up violently, ridding himself of the scanty contents of his stomach in gasping heaves. He gagged on bile as tears streamed down his face.

  "Here," said a woman's voice. "Put this under your tongue."

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  He felt her hand, warm on the chill skin at the back of his neck. Obediently Mark lifted his bowed head, fighting renewed nausea from the slight motion, and, with an unsteady hand, helped guide the pill to his mouth.

  The little pill dissolved almost immediately. It left a burning sensation on the underside of his tongue, but somehow it took away the vile taste. Seconds later the awful nausea eased away, too. Mark sighed shakily, wiped his mouth, then rubbed his swollen eyes.

  "You okay? They could kill someone, yanking people out of hibernation like this," commented the woman.

  "What ... what's wrong?" Mark asked. He blinked furiously, trying to focus.

  "What's happening?" Despite his grogginess, he sensed the charged atmosphere around him, a confused miasma of fear, anger, and urgency.

  "Who are 'they'?"

  "We've been hijacked," she answered flatly, and he recognized her white jacket as belonging to a hiber tech. "Terrorists. Listen, there are other people who need help. You okay now?" She was gone before he could answer.

  Hijacked? Terrorists! The words shocked clarity into Mark's brain. He opened his eyes wide.

  He was kneeling on the hibernation chamber's deck. Most of the units were still closed, but several gaped open and empty. Scattered around him, like so much debris, were their former occupants. Some were sitting, some were lying curled up or sprawled out, others leaned on each other. The tech who'd just helped him knelt by one of the prone figures several meters away.

  Only two people were on their feet. One of them was busy dumping a Chhhh-kk-tu out of a lower-tier hibernation unit. The other stood by the door with a gun trained on the room.

  Shit! Mark's heart contracted, then began to race as he stared incredulously at the two upright figures. The hijackers were Elpind!

  Elspind, dammit! Use the plural. It was a ridiculous time to be concerned with alien grammar, and part of his brain realized that dimly. Mark took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his thudding heart, steady his trembling.

  The hin near the door rapped out a command to the other. Mark recognized only a few words. He'd never heard

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  Elspindlor spoken so rapidly and colloquially before.

  Where's Eerin? he wondered. Surely ... surely Eerin couldn't be part of this!

  He tried to reject the thought out of hand, but it lurked in the back of his mind like an uninvited guest.

  "Get up!" shouted the Elpind with the gun in Elspindlor. "Everyone ... up!"

  Hin waved the gun for emphasis. Mark got to his feet with a grunt, fighting dizziness. His head pounded, nausea threatened again, and he was stiff and sore all over. Shaking off hibernation was never pleasant, but this was worse than anything he'd ever experienced.

  He gestured to the other passengers, some of whom were looking at him, and slowly, they began following his example. They understood the gun and the gesture, if not the language.

  They staggered, several holding on to each other for support. Mark counted five who still sat or lay on the floor. The second Elpind prodded one of the sitters at the other end of the hibernation chamber. "Get up!"

  Oh, God! Mark sucked in his breath as he recognized one of the still-prone figures. Cara! Until now, he'd assumed that she was still in one of the units.

  He had to get her up. Slowly, careful to make no sudden moves (the first rule when taken hostage, his memory supplied automatically, make no sudden moves), Mark shuffled across the chamber until he was beside her.

  It flashed through his mind to wonder why he and these other people had been singled out to be awakened, but he didn't have time to ponder that question, or any other. Cara came first. He could feel the gun like a physical touch on his body as the Elpind holding it swung it around, training it on him as he clumsily knelt.

  The journalist lay on her stomach at the base of one of the control panels, turned away from Mark. Her legs, with bare, dark feet poking out of the blue hibernation coverall, sprawled limply.

  Mark swallowed hard as he knelt by her. "Cara?" Oh, God, be all right!

  Please! Even though he could see the slight movement of her back as she breathed, his hand shook as he slid his fingers beneath her shoulder-length bush of hair.

  Then he sighed with relief. Her skin was warm, her pulse,

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  strong and steady. Fell back asleep, that's all.

  "Cara!" Mark shook her shoulder, glancing back at the chamber door. Their fellow hostages were being herded out the door; only three or four still remained in the room. He shook the girl hard, wishing he could just scoop her up and carry her, but at the moment it was touch and go as to whether he could haul himself up and out of the room. "Come on, Cara! Wake up!"

  She muttered drowsily and stirred.

  "It's Mark, Cara. Come on." Grunting with effort, afraid that they'd both topple over, Mark somehow dragged her to her feet. Slinging her arm around his neck, he slipped his own tightly around her waist, in a grim parody of their time as dancing partners. Cara sagged against him, mumbling.

  "Walk, Cara. That's it. C'mon, walk." Alternately dragging her and guiding her irregular, stumbling steps, Mark got them across the chamber and out the door. The group followed one of their captors, while the other Elpind brought up the rear.

  The Asimov's large common lounge wasn't really crowded, but the couches and chairs were all taken. Some of them were occupied by people he recognized, people he'd met at the Captain's Night party, but Mark didn't see anyone wearing a blue-and-white crew uniform.

  Steering Cara to a space on the floor against the outside wall of the hibernation chamber, he let her slip to the carpeted deck, then dropped down beside her. His body was immensely grateful to be sitting down again.

  We need food and water, he realized, though his stomach spun rebelliously at the thought. The fast before entering hibernation, as well as the sleep drugs themselves, left people weak and dehydrated. Got to try to think clearly, he reminded himself, trying to remember all his StarBridge courses on dealing with crisis situations. All prospective diplomats learned hostage protocol. It seldom happened; interstellar distances made terrorist raids rare, but they weren't unknown in the CLS.

  "Mark?" Cara was finally coming around. She sat up woozily. "What's going on?"

  "Trouble." Mark took his first good look around the room and caught his breath. Eerin stood quietly with four other Elspind at the front of the room, watching him and Cara. Hin's golden eyes were huge and sad.

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  Mark closed his own eyes, biting his lip. Eerin is not part of this. I refuse to believe it!

  Cara was looking, too. Even groggy, the journalist in her recognized the
significance of people with guns on a passenger ship.

  "We've been hijacked!" she gasped ... then had enough sense to shut up.

  Heads were turning their way. Seconds later her dark eyes widened again as she realized who their captors were.

  "Elspind?" she whispered. "Why? What about Eerin?"

  Mark shrugged, but a cold lump of suspicion was congealing in his stomach as he remembered the two scientists they'd met at the party--and why they'd been traveling to Elseemar.

  What if these guys are Wospind? He hoped he was wrong, hoped these terrorists had no idea and couldn't care less that Sarozz and R'Fzarth were on this ship. Still dizzy, he forced himself to scan the room again. The Mizari and his Apis colleague weren't present. Narrowing his eyes, Mark turned his attention back to the terrorists.

  The one to Eerin's right seemed heavier built, but that was largely due to a much denser coat of soft-looking honey-brown hair ... as if the down on Eerin had thickened into fur on this Elpind. The skin, like Eerin's, was orange and leathery. This Elpind had green eyes instead of gold, but they were as large and round as Eerin's and had that same luminous quality.

  The most noticeable difference between this Elpind and Eerin had nothing to do with physical form. Two of the terrorists wore a scarlet, loose-fitting tunic that fell nearly to their knobby knees. The left side of the garment was decorated with the emblem of a bird, a bird with outspread wings of bright, varicolored feathers. Its head pointed down toward the hem of the tunic.

  As if it were diving ... Mark thought foggily, then memory suddenly surged back. Oh, my God! That's an Elseewas, that bird that does a suicide dive into water at the end of its life. Eerin wears Shadowbird feathers when hin dances the Mortenwol. Eerin had said the bird was an important symbol to hin's people, but seeing its death plunge worn as a badge sickened him.

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  He focused on the other tunic-clad hijacker. Virtually hairless, the natural angularity of these painfully thin people was very evident here. The peach-colored skin had a healthy glow and was tight and smooth, not leathery-looking, over the bony outlines. This one wore a tunic like the other except it fell open down the middle.

  Mark recalled what he knew of the three Elpind genders.

  The males have fur, but the females are smooth, almost hairless. So that furry one is a heen, or male, and the orange- skinned one is han, or female.

  That's why they're wearing clothes when the neuters don't. They're sexual beings.

  Cara poked him in the ribs. "Who's the leader?" she whispered. Just as she spoke, another figure entered the lounge from the narrow passageway leading forward to officer quarters and the bridge.

  "Never mind," amended Cara grimly. "I know."

  Watching this newest addition to the group stride over to the side of the room where Eerin and the others stood, Mark agreed with Cara. "Stride" seemed a strange verb to apply to a light- boned, fragile-looking Elpind, but it fit this one. It had nothing to do with size or solidity or weight; the word applied because every move the newcomer made claimed confident space.

  Mark stared at the downy, uncovered body the color of old ivory. Another neuter. He noted the quick glance the Elpind gave to hin's compatriots. It was a look that said, "I'll handle the decision making from now on." The Elpind's eyes were the color of old brass.

  The leader turned toward the passageway and gestured. A petite Asian woman entered the lounge. Captain Loachin.

  Beside him, Cara gasped, and Mark clenched his hands into fists. One of the woman's beautifully tilted eyes was swollen shut and a large, livid bruise marked her left cheekbone. Her uniform was disheveled and bloodstained.

  Studying her, Mark decided with relief that the blood wasn't her own.

  The Captain stepped forward without urging, her posture straight and unbending as she began speaking in perfect Mizari.

  "Some of you know what I'm about to say, but those of you who have just have been awakened do not. Five days ago, just two days after docking at Station Four that orbits Arrooouhl, the Heeyoon mother world, Asimov picked up a distress call

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  on the continuously monitored emergency frequency. As regulations decree, we dropped out of metaspace to respond, and found a small shuttle with CLS markings apparently drifting powerless. We grappled it alongside."

  Mark noticed that Eerin was translating the Captain's speech for the brassy-eyed leader.

  "When these people came aboard, we discovered that the distress message was a ruse. They ordered us to take them to Elseemar. When my navigator tried to resist, their leader, who calls hinself Orim"--her voice faltered for the first time-- "shot and killed him."

  Mark and Cara gasped, both recognizing the name. Shit, they're Wospind all right! Mark thought. The People of Death! But if that's the case, what the hell is Eerin doing with them?

  Loachin had paused, obviously fighting to regain control. When she continued, her voice was once again even. "Several weeks ago a medical research lab was destroyed on Elseemar. Many scientists working there were killed. Two of our passengers ..."

  Dammit, I knew it! Mark thought.

  "... Esteemed Sarozz, a Mizari, and an Apis named R'Fzarth, are scientists who have been sent out by the CLS to organize the survivors and see what can be salvaged of the research data. These two passengers, Orim has told me, are the reason this ship was chosen by these hijackers."

  Loachin paused again, this time for breath that escaped involuntarily in a small sigh. She's exhausted, Mark realized. These last five days must have been hell for her. His admiration for her cool control increased.

  "These people cal themselves the Wospind and claim responsibility for the recent violence there. They have taken R'Fzarth and Sarozz into special custody, and announced that the CLS must meet their demands, or there will be further violence. We are approximately one hour away from Elseemar.

  That is all I know at the moment."

  She gazed out across the lounge, and a different, almost pleading note entered her calm voice. "Obviously, we are in grave danger. I ask the passengers to please remember that not only your lives, but the lives of others, depend on your actions in these next hours. I caution you to move slowly,

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  speak quietly, and try to restrain your fear. Remember that our captors do not speak Mizari. Do not attempt to antagonize them or make demands. They have warned me that any such actions will bring speedy reprisal, and they have already killed once."

  She swallowed. "I have been attempting to persuade the Wospind to allow my crew to bring you food and water as soon as possible. Again, the best thing you can do for yourself and others is to remain as quiet and cooperative as possible."

  A low murmur of fear and consternation went through the small crowd.

  Captain Loachin waved to quiet them. "Berytin, our next scheduled destination, was notified when we changed course to investigate the faked distress call, but Orim has allowed no communication since. Currently, no one knows our location. All we have to depend on is each other," she finished quietly. "I am counting on each one of you to remember that."

  Then the woman stepped back and, obeying the female Wopind's gesture, moved over to stand by the han.

  The next person on the agenda, the Wopind leader hinself, stepped forward and Eerin moved with hin. The gun trained on hin's back, held by another of the neuters, was suddenly visible.

  "Mark!" Cara whispered.

  "I see it." Mark was ashamed of the relief he felt. Eerin was a hostage too, in as much danger as the rest of them. He tried to catch his pair partner's eye so he could smile encouragingly, but Eerin, appearing suddenly agitated, even desperate, deliberately looked away.

  "Call forward the spokesman," the Wopind leader ordered Eerin loudly in Elspindlor. The mellifluous language, with its many "L" and vowel sounds, seemed at odds with the hard glint of Orim's eyes and the harsh tone of hin's voice. Mark found he could understand the words--though the speed at which the sounds flowed over each other
confirmed that Eerin had spoken slowly during their Elspindlor practice sessions.

  "The one you have named is not appropriate," Eerin argued, using the same language. "The CLS will expect the Captain to deliver the Wopind demands."

  "The Captain is only the Captain," the hijacker snapped, the fanatic light in hin's eyes altering to a frightening glare. "The

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  passenger roster lists one person who is a trained negotiator. If heen speaks, the CLS will listen. Heen must speak for our people. Call the negotiator forward! Now!"

  Mark's heart took a sudden plunge as he realized why Eerin was arguing.

  Oh, God, no! Trained negotiator? Please, anything but this! But he knew instinctively that there was no denying the madness in Orim's eyes. His worst nightmare was coming true. Don't argue with hin, Eerin, he thought numbly. It's too dangerous. Do what hin tells you.

  As if in response to his thoughts, the Elpind looked out over the passengers, hesitated a moment longer, then hin's golden eyes met Mark's. "Mark Kenner," called the Elpind in English. Hin's voice was heavy. "Mark Kenner, please come forward."

  "Laris mian!" Orim demanded in Elspindlor. "Laris mian, come here, Mark Kenner!"

  "No!" Cara grabbed his arm frantically. "Mark!"

  "It's all right, Cara," Mark said. She hadn't understood the Elspindlor, of course, couldn't know why he was being singled out. "They just want a spokesperson, that's all." His heart was still slamming, but reassuring her had steadied him a little, he found, as he slowly climbed to his feet, careful to keep his hands away from his body. The adrenaline now pouring into his system also helped, clearing a little more of the drugged haze from his mind.

  As he picked his way through the crowd, Mark could feel the gun trained on his chest. He could barely keep from staring fixedly at the weapon's snout, and it was with difficulty that he transferred his attention back to the Wopind leader.

  He forced himself to regard the Wopind without flinching, but also without seeming to challenge hin. Eye contact was a touchy thing in hostage situations. Some species regarded a direct stare as an open insult or challenge, others took the lack of it as a sign of duplicity. Mark had to walk a very thin line, knowing as little as he did about Elpind body language and cultural mores.