Isthia nodded her enthusiasm. “Now, do we get Jeran’s assistance?”
“We’d have to explain everything,” Damia said with an exaggerated groan. “You know how Jeran is. A, B, C, and D!”
“Damia, did you feel threatened by the dream?” Afra asked, no hint of levity in his expression.
“No. I’d like to believe Isthia’s intuition is correct.”
“Like to believe?” Isthia asked.
Afra held up his hand. “That’s fair, Isthia.”
“I suppose so. Well, let’s tell Ian and Rakella. We’ll need their help, anyway.”
* * *
The one vehicle at Deneb Tower which could carry three long bodies was a medium-sized rescue pod with four conformable seats. It had probably been left behind by a liner, for its engine was missing, but it still had working directional thrusters. They put in fresh oxygen tanks and dusted down the console, rather pleased to have a vehicle that had standard communications as well as a viewplate and external sensors. Jeran was not on-duty, which was no problem as Ian and Rakella knew how to run up the generators. Damia could feel her palms sweating and her stomach was griping badly as she settled herself into her chair, Isthia on one side, Afra just behind her.
“I’ll make the lift,” Isthia said, settling her hips deeper into the seat. “You’re completely cured, Damia, but you save your strength for the contact.”
Damia had a moment of panic for that decision, but then, Isthia had never lied to her and probably wasn’t now. It just would have been so reassuring to push off again, as she used to do so blithely.
You could now, too, love, said Afra in a fine, thin tone. He reached forward to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Relax!
She was quivering with tension and forced herself to unwind. She could, however, sense the risking keen of the generators and felt Isthia tense as she waited for exactly the right mo . . .
She launched them, a good, strong thrust that Damia could objectively admire. It was good to be in deep space again. And then the pod’s proximity alarm beeped urgently.
“Bring up the screen, Damia,” Afra said, leaning forward to peer over her shoulder.
“There it is!” cried Isthia, unnecessarily pointing, her expression exultant.
“It” was not a large ship, which immediately encouraged Damia to believe in amicable motives. “It” was also a deep space craft, having the usual haphazard design of ships that were never intended to land. It did have what looked very much like weaponry: wide-mouthed orifices that were stained with old fires and long snouts pointing outward and looking effective.
Ian, turn off the DEW, Isthia said. We don’t want the Fleet charging out here and blowing us and our visitors up. Yes, that bunch of toggles under the red-rimmed glass panel. Turn ’em all off. The disconnection won’t show up for an hour or two. At which time we’ll know one way or the other . . .
“I think I have to go to sleep again,” Damia said drily. “Will just the song do it, Afra? These seats aren’t made for rocking.”
“I could rock the pod,” offered Isthia.
“We’ll try without that, thank you,” Afra said and, with his hand on Damia’s shoulder, began to sing the potent lullaby.
She knew she was shaking her head as sleep once more claimed her.
The pattern was gone. Instead she was inside the other ship, looking out at her tiny cargo pod. This time other figures were clearly visible and they were definitely alien. Despite their unusual appearance, she could sense no danger, nothing “heavy,” only relief. The “visitors” looked to be tall, though she had no gauge by which to compare them, save the bulky equipment. They did not sit, but stood on the three rear appendages, stubby legs which ended in splayed feet with three thick “toes.” The upper limbs had five longer digits, one on each side of a squat “palm” and three along its top. The heads were long, tapering to what appeared to be a muzzle but she could not see a mouth. One eye of a composite nature crowned the thick “head.” There seemed to be dorsal ridges along the backbone. Maybe one of the three feet was actually a caudal appendage. Their skin or pelt, she couldn’t discern which, was sleek and varicolored, ranging from grays through green, brown, and a slatey blue. Some were definitely taller than others, but she didn’t think the smaller ones were immature or another sex.
Instantly her dream self turned toward a flat surface, set at a distance above the deck. This surface abruptly lit up and images began to form. More of this species, racing to enter what she had to identify as shuttles. These took off into space and she watched them link up with larger versions of the ship she was dreaming on. In a massed array, this fleet left its orbit, obviously in battle readiness.
To her shock, she saw their objective: a Beetle Hive sphere. She watched the battle, saw “her” ships being destroyed, saw the Hive sphere send its fighters out, watched them being destroyed and then, with great relief, saw the Hive ship suddenly explode, sending huge chunks spinning off, sometimes colliding with “her” ships and demolishing them.
Abruptly those scenes segued into huge fragments turning end over end against . . . suddenly the background changed and it was the Denebian system from which the twisted detritus escaped.
Then all the dream figures turned inward to face her and she was overwhelmed with a sense of urgency, of interrogation, of fear.
In yet another wrench of perspective, she was back in the pod, crying out.
“They know about the Beetles. I saw them destroy a Hive. Then there was all this debris spinning in space, away from Deneb.” She turned first to Isthia and then to Afra for a reassuring interpretation of what she’d seen.
“Are they warning us then?” asked Isthia.
‘No, they know we’ve been attacked and survived, as they have survived,” Damia said, choosing her words slowly.
“Then what do they want of us now?” Isthia wanted to know.
“Just don’t put me back to sleep again,” Damia said flatly, rubbing at her temples.
“It seems an admirable way of communicating between species,” Afra said, teasingly, but he patted her arm sympathetically.
“The universe doesn’t have to be full of species who are inimical,” Isthia said. “Perhaps what these folk need are allies against the Hives. We’ve survived an attack, so we’d make good allies.”
“They’ve certainly gone to great lengths to explain,” Damia admitted. She was beginning to believe that Isthia could be right. Her mind had not been overwhelmed or raped during this closer encounter. They had managed to convey vital information.
“Isthia, can you put me into a hypnotic sleep?” Afra asked. “I was part of both mind-merges: the first Rowan-focus, and then the B-Raven section that sent the Hive sphere into the sun. I can at least give them our battle account.” Then he settled himself in the conformable and linked his hands across his thin waist.
Damia had an impulse to protest, but Isthia unfastened her safety harness and drifted to Afra, holding herself down with one hand while she placed the other firmly on his left temple. Afra seemed to collapse into sleep.
She turned to look out at the visitors’ ship, now noticing how pitted its surface was, how worn and scratched the symbols on what she took to be its bow. There were other ideograms elsewhere, some more legible than others. A complicated language rendered in bars and dots and occasionally cross strokes. Not as complex as some of Earth’s oriental scripts, if that was the right word for them.
“How long did I sleep that last time, Isthia?”
“About half an hour. I didn’t think to time it,” she said, floating back to her own chair. “Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.” Then she let out a big sigh. “I suspect my son is going to be vastly annoyed with his old mother,” and the eyes she turned on Damia hadn’t the slightest gleam of repentance. “I really should have taken training much earlier. I could have been Deneb’s Prime.”
Damia regarded her grandmother with wonder.
“We tend not to make the mo
st of our chances,” she went on. Extending a hand, she lightly touched Damia’s arm. “Make the most of yours, dear child. But then, you are, aren’t you?”
“Do you think they are emissaries of an altruistic species?”
“I’m quite attached to that notion,” Isthia said comfortably. “I wish we’d thought to bring some provisions.”
Damia laughed. “This was sort of a scramble. Ohho!” Her throat went too dry for more words and she could only point at the vessel which was clearly moving under power.
“Let’s get out of its way,” Isthia said, and frantically reached a hand out to Damia.
Damia, following Isthia’s thought, pushed the pod back so forcefully that the vessel became only a darkness.
“Not that far.”
“It’s following us,” Damia decided after a moment’s observation. “What is Afra telling them to do?”
“Come on in, the water’s fine,” Isthia replied facetiously. “This must be the right way to handle this.”
“I thought it was, too.”
“This time it is right, Damia.”
“Yes, it is,” Afra said, though his words were slightly slurred. “At least I have extended the invitation. I’ve no gauge to guide me, but they appeared to me amazed at how we conduct our battles. I think that’s a good impression to give them.”
“Now, what do we do?” Damia asked, watching as the alien vessel continued to close with them.
“Now, we inform Earth Prime that we have concluded opening talks with an alien species,” said Afra so calmly that Damia knew he was very nervous.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
DENEB Prime Jeran gave them a prolonged demonstration, at the top of both lungs and mind, of what they might expect from Earth Prime. The local Fleet Commander appeared at the Tower, apoplectic to have found an alien ship orbiting the planet when the warning system hadn’t so much as burped.
I TOLD YOU WHY IT IS NECESSARY TO PURSUE THIS COURSE OF ACTION, Afra roared with such vehemence that Isthia and Damia regarded him with astonishment. Cut off in mid-spate by Afra’s uncharacteristic bellow, Jeran glared at the Capellan.
“You had no authority to do so,” Jeran said in a terse tone, clipping his words; expression and stance illustrating his indignation.
“He obeyed me,” Isthia said calmly, and took the conformable seat. Ian and Rakella were still backed in the corner where they had retreated from Jeran’s angry harangue.
Somewhat to her surprise, Damia could regard the scene with objective detachment—or perhaps, she amended, she was merely too stunned by the whole episode to be able to react.
Jeran turned on Isthia. “Grandmother,” he began.
“Did you bother to inform Jeff or have you just been enjoying this exhibition of vituperation too much?” Isthia had a distinct gift for putting people in their places.
“I have first,” Jeran said in a loud voice, enunciating very, very clearly, “to ascertain just what has transpired before I can send a rational report. They,” and he jerked his head at uncle and great-aunt, “gave me some hoodle-hoop about dreams and being called. Dreams . . .” and his scorn would have scarified a lesser personality than Isthia Raven, “hardly constitute an intelligent reason for admitting strangers past our perimeter defenses.”
“The dreams constituted a contact which cleverly surmounted a language barrier,” Afra replied, “and provided us with sufficient information to wish to investigate more thoroughly, up to and including personal confrontation.”
Jeran stared at him, his nostrils flaring, fists on his belt, one foot tapping as he struggled to leash his temper.
“Between Isthia, Afra, and myself,” Damia said coolly, rather delighted to see her phlegmatic brother moved to temper, “you must admit, Jeran, that we would have experience in recognizing threat. This species does not pose one. In fact, hostility is furthest from their thoughts. Their worlds have suffered from Hive attacks. They urgently desired to know how we repelled the Leviathan.”
“As I was part of that assault, I explained how we contrived,” Afra went on conversationally. “The Mrdinis were very impressed that we had needed no recourse to armaments to destroy it.”
Jeran rolled his eyes, noting the distraught expression on the commander’s face. “That was even stupider, Afra. Giving away information about our defense? That’s the most horrendous breach of security that . . . that . . .” Words failed him.
* * *
WE’RE COMING IN, and Jeff’s words rang in everyone’s ears. Damia had to blink, because her father’s bellow did not reverberate in her head. She glanced anxiously at Afra, who closed one eye in reassurance.
* * *
You see, you can even take my son’s bellow without wincing, Isthia said in a finely tuned thought. I did make one slight error, though, and Damia and Afra turned to her in surprise, for her expression was fleetingly rueful. I set a sending constraint in your minds so you wouldn’t inadvertently ’path, but I didn’t restrict receiving. Never thought you’d be in receipt of anything. Everyone knew not to ’path you until I gave permission.
So that’s how we were able to receive the Mrdinis’ dreams, Damia said, and hid her smile behind her hand. How reassuring to know that you can be fallible, Grandmother.
The opposite would make you unbearable, Afra added with no rancor.
“I simply don’t understand your reasoning in this,” Jeran was saying, “any of you. Especially you, Damia, since you nearly . . .”
WE WON’T GO INTO THAT, JERAN! Jeff’s forceful words echoed, and Jeran bowed his head, scowling blackly at the floor, around him, at anything but his sister.
Jeran didn’t have to say it out loud, Damia thought bleakly, though she was grateful to her father for stopping him.
The Mrdinis are an entirely separate affair, Isthia said gently.
Entirely, Afra added, and twined his fingers in hers. Damia shifted restlessly, knowing that Jeran would not be the first to remind her of that Sodan stupidity. When Afra also edged slightly in front of her, Damia realized his intention. It wouldn’t be the first time he had protected her from her father’s censure, but this time she would take her fair share, so she eased forward to close the gap.
Abruptly the largest cradle in the Tower yard held one of the fast Fleet courier vessels and the orbital alarms indicated the emergence of four large ships in space above them.
“They are upset,” Isthia murmured, grinning.
Damia envied her grandmother that superb self-confidence but, oddly enough, she began to feel more positive about her part in this encounter.
Wearing a ferocious scowl, Jeff ’ported into the Tower, the Rowan beside him. The next few seconds were full of such heated exchanges of accusation, refutation, and explanation that Rakella, never a strong Talent, folded against Ian, moaning.
“Oh, do cool it, Jeff,” Isthia said commandingly, her blue eyes flashing with a reciprocal outrage. “I most certainly do want you and the Rowan to enter into discussion with the Mrdinis. That’s what they’re here for. Both Afra and Damia support my evaluation that these are allies, not aggressors. We exhibited reciprocal good faith by inviting them within our defenses.”
“That’s why I’m raging, Dad. Letting aliens into Deneb’s skies is totally irrational!” Jeran exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “We haven’t yet got over the psychic scars of the Beetle Penetration and then my grandmother . . .”
“One unarmed vessel? One small, unarmed vessel is no threat. It is usually regarded as an emissary,” Isthia replied, her patience fraying. “Oh, do be sensible, Jeff.”
“Sensible is using the channels and procedures that are set up to deal with occurrences of this sort, Mother,” Jeff began, his temper only just contained.
“Wait a moment, Jeff,” the Rowan said thoughtfully, “Isthia may have acted impetuously, but I can sense the Mrdinis. They are very open. I’m not getting a shred of hostility from their minds and there’s certainly nothing ‘heavy’ on this alien sh
ip.” Her glance slid across Damia and back to Jeff. “I’d know,” she added gently, putting her hand on Jeff’s arm so that the contact would emphasize the impressions she had just gained from her mental probe.
Jeff regarded his wife for a long moment and then his anger seemed to drain out of him. He gestured to Jeran to relax and smiled reassuringly at the pallid Rakella whom Ian was supporting.
“Who made first contact?” he asked, looking from his mother to Afra and then Damia, where his gaze lingered.
“We all had contact,” Isthia said, “though Damia’s was the clearest.”
Jeff nodded, accepting the statement without challenge.
“I put a restraint on them ’pathing,” Isthia went on, in a slightly apologetic tone, “but I forgot to inhibit receipt. Damia would, of course, be both more receptive and more vulnerable in post-convalescency.” Isthia shrugged. “After two weeks of nightly dream sequences, I had to accept the fact that the pattern could not be random, had to be an imposition. I couldn’t establish a source for it. I was more than surprised when first Rakella, Besseva, then Ian, and finally Damia and Afra informed me that they were also receiving similar sendings.”
Jeff turned to Jeran expectantly: his eldest son shook his head.
“I can’t imagine why Jeran didn’t receive too,” Isthia remarked drolly. “But he didn’t. We six got together, to compare notes, and tried to figure out a response to what was patently a friendly overture. Damia volunteered.” When the Rowan looked apprehensive, Isthia raised her hand in a placating gesture. “I would scarcely undo the patient work of several months, Angharad. Knowing the martial mind, I decided that we’d check as far as we were able to. The Fleet takes so long to mobilize, doesn’t it! So we made visual contact, established communications, and extended an invitation to the emissaries. Now you, Fleet, and the League can handle future negotiations.” She let out a sigh as she propelled herself out of the chair. “Now, it’s been a busy few hours and I look forward to some unstructured sleep. Come, Damia, Afra! We’ll all rest better back at the cabin. I don’t want you exposed to the emotional levels that will shortly be rampant around here.” Then she turned to Ian and Rakella. “You two come as well. You look as shagged as I feel. See you later, dears,” she said, blithely flinging her fingers at Jeff and the Rowan. “Come on!” and she imperiously gestured for obedience to her orders.
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