“Xai,” Marcus whispered nervously.
“Did you want something?” Xai asked loudly, her accent perfect Prime.
The man smiled, giving Marcus a glimpse of all the studs in his teeth. They said Messinians kept all sorts of things in their teeth—explosives, poison. Marcus glanced apprehensively around the room. Half the bar and certainly all the Messinian troops were staring interestedly in their direction.
“Suchow’te, ch’a xiange,” the man said. Traitor, you heard me. “Soi, soi t’alla katzwuon,” he spat. We’d be better off if you were dead.
Xai glanced at Marcus.
“Xai,” Marcus warned.
One minute she was sitting there, staring off through the window at the multicolored cloud that made up the nebula, the next she had followed her fist across the table and into the man’s mouth. All of a sudden the soldier was lying on the ground, his hand cradling his jaw. Xai stood over him, her frame easy, an almost relieved expression on her face. The rest of the bar was entirely silent.
Xai glanced up at all the people staring at her, then back at the man lying at her feet. “Sonquat,” she said calmly, every inch of her slight frame reeking contemptuous superiority. Peasant. “Xing-chow, t’e xei, sat alleh boao.” Leave fighting to your betters. Go back to the farm. Or, go back to the courtyard. There was even an intimation of the outhouse.
There was a moment’s stunned silence, as everyone came to terms with the import of her statement. Then the room exploded into action, as every Messinian soldier in the place leapt across the intervening space to rip Xai’s head off and everyone else tried desperately to get out of the way. Marcus had one last glimpse of Xai’s exultant expression before she was swamped by a veritable deluge of fists and he was pushed out of the way, landing under a nearby table. There was a moment of complete confusion. Abruptly Xai sprang out of the crowd, delivered a ferocious roundhouse kick to the head of an approaching soldier, and leapt onto the bar. Her nose was bleeding.
A slender, dangerous looking Messinian with wild tattoos in red and blue leapt onto the other end of the bar. He seemed to be in his late thirties. “Telle, x’boe!” someone cried. Teach her, Telle. Or perhaps, fight her, Telle. Most of the soldiers fell back, evidently trusting the slight man with their honor. Those who did not falter were pulled to the side by others. Whatever they were told made them wait as well.
Xai stood poised on the other end of the bar, a small smile on her face. “Ta, Telle,” she said. Yes, Telle.
“X’boet Ke-i’dzei?” a woman said incredulously, her voice thick with contempt. Teach a Ke-i’dzei? Most of the other Messinians laughed. Xai flushed slightly, but didn’t take her eyes off the man approaching her.
Telle didn’t say anything. He walked down the long, narrow bar, his expression intent, placing foot after careful foot on the slick, pseudo-wood surface, looking for all the world like some sort of lithe, predatory cat. Xai waited for him in a deceptively relaxed pose. In the distance, Marcus could hear the telltale beeping of approaching guardian droids.
A tall, slender Messinian with officer’s fletchings entered the bar. For a moment he just examined the scene, his fists on his hips. Then his eyes fixed on Xai. “Telle,” he said abruptly in a clear, carrying voice, “Xella Talein at telkale sei.” Telle, that’s the child of Xella Tal’ei.
The man on the bar faltered in his forward progress. “Talein telkale?” he said doubtfully, glancing at the man who was now walking toward him. Xai’s grin wavered. The beeping of the guardian droids drew nearer.
“Ta,” the man replied, looking up at Xai. “Ke-i’dzei kal’e Tal’ei.”
Telle studied Xai for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Then, abruptly, he straightened out of his fighting stance, showing his palms in a strangely submissive gesture. “Talein telkale x’boein soi xein,” he said. I will not fight the child of Tal’ei.
“Xai!” Marcus hissed, taking the opportunity as it was proffered. “We have to get out of here!”
Xai glanced around the room—at the soldiers staring at her with strange, clouded expressions, at the bar regulars all watching her with suspicion, at the sight of the guardian droids in the distance. With something close to a snarl she jumped off the bar, stumbling drunkenly when she hit the ground, all her former grace abandoning her. Marcus grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the café.
They ran all the way to Junction 4501 before stopping to fall into a heap in the curve of the passageway, the Gamma above them beeping anxiously.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Marcus asked.
Xai looked at her hands.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” he cried.
Xai put her hands on her head and looked down at the floor. “Not now, Marcus,” she mumbled. “Please.”
Marcus leaned his head back against the wall. “That was close,” he said finally. Xai looked up and nodded. For a minute or two they just sat there, staring at the patterned faux metal ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” Xai said softly.
Marcus sighed deeply.
“I just… I’ve been having a bad day, that’s all.”
Marcus examined her pale, drawn face.
“Try not to do it again, all right?” he said finally.
Xai gave him a rueful smile. “Ok.”
Marcus pushed himself into a standing position. “Good,” he said, pulling Xai to her feet beside him. “Now why don’t you sleep it off in the Tellorian?”
“Because my Grandfather will kill me,” Xai told him, jerking her arm out of his grasp and straightening.
Marcus put his hands on his hips and scowled at her. “Oh,” he retorted, “and he won’t when he finds out you picked a fight with the entire Strike Force?”
Xai clasped her forehead. “Right,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten. Thanks Marcus.”
Marcus sniffed derisively and fell in beside her. They walked side by side down the hallway, toward the docking bay.
Chapter Ten
XAI woke up the next morning to the raucous, blatant wail of the station’s alarms. “Hull breach on Level Three,” Alpha sang. “Life support failing in Levels Two and Three. All personnel to safety pods.”
Xai sat up, clutched her head, and tried to figure out where she was. Her Gamma hung in the air beside her, whining a meek and higher pitched version of the station’s alarm.
Finally, it came to her. She was inside the Annabel Tellorian. Marcus had shut her in last night to let her sleep off the liquor. She’d gotten drunk because she had been summoned to Messim by the Oracle. After that… she winced, remembering what had happened, feeling the bruises on her body and face.
Xai rubbed her hands over her eyes and tried to force her brain to function. If there was a hull breach somewhere, she had to make sure her atmosphere was secure. She reached up to the hatch and keyed it shut. There was a slight hissing sound as the Tellorian sealed herself and the oxygen pumps came on-line. “Annabel,” she whispered, squinting down at the controls beside the bed, “connect me to Marcus.”
“Searching,” Annabel told her.
“Escape pod 453 and 456 off and away,” Alpha sang. Xai looked up, startled. Something had to have gone terribly wrong if they were jettisoning in the escape pods.
“Annabel,” she repeated, “where’s Marcus?” She peered around the interior of the ship, wondering where her boots were.
“Searching,” Annabel repeated blandly.
“Escape pod 226 and 227 off and away,” Alpha sang. 226 and 227? Xai thought, surprised. That was on her side of the base. She moved to the front of the Tellorian.
Xai had spent many an afternoon on this deck, watching the great swirling arms of the nebula reach through the sky, taking a break from tinkering on the Tellorian to imagine all the things Marcus would eventually do. At the time, the nebula had never ceased to move her, in a poignant sort of way. She would never have the chance to go into it, catch the currents, sail to a nearby port. Now, however, sailing was about
the last thing on her mind. Right now, the nebula just looked large and cloudy. And...Xai squinted. Something was moving before it.
“Annabel,” she said, “Magnify that…moving thing,” she finished finally, waving a hand for emphasis.
“Escape pod 233, 234, 456, and 459 off and away,” Alpha sang.
“Specify the quadrant,” Annabel replied.
Xai glanced up at the numbers stamped into the squares of Mallorian Plastic. “442,” she said.
“Specify the magnification,” Annabel said.
“Ah—ten times,” Xai told the computer, her tone impatient.
“Escape pod 112, 134, 156, 347 and 352 off and away,” Alpha sang.
An image of the small, rectangular escape pod was projected into the middle of the cramped space of the Tellorian. The pod was spinning swiftly toward the nebula.
“Xai,” Marcus shouted, his voice whistling tinnily through the intercom, “Xai, are you still in the Tellorian? Xai, this is important! Are you still there?”
Xai scrambled back to the intercom, stumbling over her boots. “Yes!” she replied. “Marcus, where are you? What’s going on?”
“Xai,” Marcus cried, “You have to launch the Tellorian! We’re being attacked by an entire Fleet division! The Messinians can’t hold them off! You have to go, now! Tell Annabel—emergency authorization X43! Engage protocol 4B!”
Xai blinked. It was like a dream. Her eyes wandered over the projection of the escape pod. It seemed to pause in space, stretching. Suddenly, abruptly, it broke apart. Xai watched with horror as twenty small shapes spun crazily out into space. “What happened?” she cried.
“The escape pod was only partially enclosed by a tractor beam,” the Tellorian replied neutrally. “This created massive stress on the structure, causing it to lose cohesion and break into—”
“That’s enough,” Xai said, feeling suddenly nauseous.
“Xai!” Marcus shouted.
Xai stared at the human figures spinning gently before the broad expanse of the nebula. Then, with growing dread, she saw two Fleet collections ships swerve around the side of the Starbase and toward the bodies.
“Escape pod 104, 115, 467, 458 and 533 off and away,” Alpha sang.
“Xai,” Marcus shouted, “protocol 4B! Now!”
“What about you?” Xai replied. She didn’t have the slightest idea what protocol 4B was.
“It’s too late!” Marcus told her, his voice shrill with anxiety. “I’m on the other side of the Starbase—I’ll never make it! You have to go!”
There was a sudden booming concussion. The Starbase lurched to the left, shuddering, accompanied by a rising chorus of high metallic shrieks. “Multiple hull breaches on level Two, Three and Four,” Alpha sang. “Gravitational field off 1.2 degrees. 1.21 degrees. 1.25 degrees. 1.3 degrees—”
The whole Starbase seemed to be shaking now, trembling, trying to hold itself together as the gravitational field changed, putting a whole new set of strains on the structure.
“Hurry, Xai!” Marcus shouted. “Can’t you feel it? They’re affecting the gravitational axis—I don’t know how long this will work! Protocol 4B! Now!”
“Force fields at sixty-five percent,” Alpha sang.
Xai shook her head. “No,” she said, “Marcus, I can’t leave you.”
“Do it!” Marcus shouted, his voice cracking with something close to hysteria.
Xai stared blankly out at the nebula. Everything was happening too fast.
“2.03 degrees. 2.5 degrees. 2.8 degrees—”
“Annabel,” Xai said blankly. “Emergency authorization X43. Engage protocol 4B.” A part of her refused to admit she had said it.
“Commencing,” the Tellorian replied. There was a strange, whirring noise. Xai turned and saw that the Annabel Tellorian was sliding back in the launching catapult. “Field damper engaged,” the Tellorian said.
Xai had the sudden, extraneous thought that field dampers were illegal. Her Gamma was droning, now, a deep almost physical whine.
“3.05 degrees. 4.2 degrees. 5.3 degrees—” Alpha continued.
“Marcus?” Xai asked. She could feel gravity pulling her to the side.
“Protocol 4B enacted,” the Tellorian said.
Suddenly the Tellorian shot through the docking bay and slammed into the force field. Xai flew helplessly through space and crashed into the Mallorian plastic roof. Her Gamma followed, thumping with a wild whistle into the wall beside her. There was a strange, pulling sensation, and the ship slid through the Field. Xai collapsed into a heap on the floor. She had just the time to look up before the Gamma slammed down on her head. There was a moment’s brilliant light. Then Xai slipped into unconsciousness, and the Annabel Tellorian hurtled into the nebula, unnoticed by the participants in the battle for Starbase 42319.
Chapter Eleven
WHEN XAI WOKE UP half an hour later, the only thing between her bruised skin and the dust and gas particles that made up the H’draxx Nebula was a network of three-centimeter thick Mallorian plastic squares, covered by a Q-Matrix perhaps four millimeters deep.
Xai opened her eyes to find herself hanging limply in zero gravity, about a half-meter above the pilot’s chair. Swamped with dizziness, she shut her eyes again and groped blindly through space until her fingers found the chair. She maneuvered into it, pausing in the middle for a fit of dry retching. It took her fingers an eternity to find the clasps of the belts and shut them over her chest and waist.
Xai leaned her head back against the cushion. “Annabel,” she said, still with her eyes closed, “diagnostic.” Her mouth barely seemed able to form the words. Her temple was throbbing—a deep, angry ache.
“Subject.”
Xai sighed. “Me.”
“Second degree concussion,” the Tellorian replied promptly.
Xai swallowed, fighting down nausea. “What’s the cure?”
“Rest.”
“Is there anything more immediate?” Xai asked tiredly.
“A series of injections can be administered to combat the symptoms.”
Xai sighed again. She hated shots. “Administer them,” she murmured.
There was a moment’s pause. Suddenly Xai felt a very sharp pain in her left buttock. “Injection administered,” the Tellorian said in a suspiciously gleeful tone of voice.
Xai opened her left eye slightly and darted a truly hateful glance at the nearest Strip. Xai hated AI. Most of them reminded her of her cousin T’ek—a little too smart for their own good and always flaunting it. Not in obvious ways, of course—just a persistent, sly needling. That’s why Xai had always liked combat class. Opening your mouth was a waste of breath, and there was nothing, Xai thought almost wistfully, like the satisfying sound of a splitting lip (provided, of course, that it wasn’t your own).
“Sensors have detected that you are unequipped with a data-processing chip,” the Tellorian said, interrupting Xai’s rather too fond reminisces of the violent days of yore.
Xai opened both eyes and took an experimental look around. “That’s right,” she replied. There wasn’t much to see, beside the faint glow off to the left—probably one of the three stars generating the currents in the nebula. Otherwise it seemed rather cloudy. Or that, at least, was the adjective that leapt to mind—given she’d never seen a real cloud, she couldn’t be sure.
“This ship was designed to be run by an individual equipped with a DPC,” the Tellorian said.
“I guess,” Xai told the Tellorian, “we’ll just have to activate the manual controls.”
“Please state your name and identification number,” Annabel said neutrally.
“Xai’andra zein Ke-i’dzei kal’e Tal’ei, Omega Chi 4622.”
“Prime has current standing orders for Xai’andra zein Ke-i’dzei kal’e Tal’ei, identification number Omega Chi 4622: subject is to remain station-bound on Starbase 42319 until a change of orders,” the Tellorian said calmly.
Xai cocked her head to the side. It was strange to hear
her entire life so casually encapsulated. “Give me the status of the Starbase,” she said.
“Last confirmed data on Starbase 42319: under attack by one Fleet class Paries Battleship, four Fleet class Brevitas Cruisers, eight Fleet class Festinatio Destroyers and sixty-four Fleet class Faetor Collection Vessels.”
Xai gaped. That was a hugely disproportionate number of ships to take a Starbase as old as hers. Two Festinatio Destroyers alone could probably have done it.
“Shields down,” the Tellorian continued, “life support down on level One and Two, life support failing on levels Three, Four and Five; gravitational anomaly at 6.72 degrees and increasing—”
“What are the probable outcomes of that scenario?” Xai said, cutting the Tellorian off before it started listing all 604 of the escape pods that had jettisoned.
“Estimating,” Annabel chimed, sounding rather enthusiastic.
Xai glanced down at the sail beneath her feet. She hoped it would be ready when the time came for it to be let out. At the moment it was furled. Sailing inside a nebula was too hard on a Q-Matrix to be attempted if one wished the matrix to both survive the trip and maintain the atmosphere inside the ship. So one coasted on the tides within the nebula and bided one’s time, letting the matrix concentrate on patching the hull, using the rudder to guide the ship, waiting for the moment when, free, one could unfurl the great sail and soar through the endless expanse of space
“It is estimated that 81.3 percent of the Messinian Strike Force will be killed during the assault,” the Tellorian said suddenly. “Of those remaining, 12.46 percent will die of their injuries, 1.33 percent will take te’xian and die, 2.46 percent will be captured, and the remaining 2.45 percent will escape. Of the civilians, 78.2 percent will die in the initial assault; another 14.53 percent will be injured. 3.78 percent will be killed during capture and 0.01 percent will escape. 18.02 percent will be captured. The current probability that all prisoners will be infected with the Alameda Virus is 94.34 percent.”
Prime- The Summons Page 5