"In ten, everybody. Ten, nine, eight . . ."
When Carialle's tailfins touched the ground, the passengers and Keff felt hardly a bump.
" . . . Two, one. Welcome to Cridi. And thank you for flying Air Carialle. Please wait until the captain has turned off the 'fasten seatbelts' sign before debarking."
Keff, who had been worried about her mental state when the Cridi took control of their flight path, was relieved at her flippancy. He took off his crash straps and stretched.
"Completely painless," Keff said to Tall Eyebrow, who timidly followed his host's lead. "No wonder your people have such a successful space program. No chance of breakup on reentry."
"No chance of missing the launch pad, either," Carialle said, activating one of her exterior cameras and tilting it downward. She had landed exactly in the middle of a round pavement surrounded by a pattern of lights laid out on the ground like a snowflake, illumination marching inward from the points.
Tall Eyebrow saluted Carialle for the safe landing.
"None of my doing, TE," she said. She noticed that his thin hands were still shaking, and made her frog image appear on the wall opposite him.
"Don't worry," she signed to him. "They'll be glad to see you."
"If only I can be certain," the Frog Prince signed back. He shook his head, a gesture of uncertainty that his people shared with humans.
"Here comes security," Keff said. "The party's beginning."
The first sight Keff had of the inhabitants of Tall Eyebrow's homeworld was the tops of helmeted and visored heads sticking out of an open vehicle that was plainly meant as field security. The flattened, molded, bulbous shape of the craft would force any missile, from thrown rocks to laser beams, to bounce upward or outward away from it. If there was anything aloft that looked more like the ancient myth of the flying saucer, Keff had yet to see it. How appropriate when the inhabitants were, verily, little green men. The thin pipes protruding from sockets in the vehicle's upper shell had to be weapons. He couldn't focus quickly enough on the moving craft to estimate whether the pipes shot solid projectiles or some other deterrent.
"I wish we could tell them we're unarmed," Keff said worriedly.
"They know," Carialle said, feeling the light sensation fluttering over all her sensors once more, this time lingering at the ends of her neural synapses. "We're being scanned again. Whew! That was thorough. Good thing I'm not ticklish. They probably also know your age, your shoe size, and how much you weigh."
"If they can do that, then why the heavy armament?" Keff wondered.
Through her audio monitors Carialle also received the frequency signatures of half a dozen frog devices, plus the quasi-telepathic communications that the system both required and made possible. Since the messages were in high-pitched cheeps and arpeggios, she couldn't understand until the IT got more data on the language of Cridi science, but at least she understood the drill. It was carried out on every planet, spaceport and asteroid in the civilized galaxy.
"Trust, but verify," Carialle replied.
Another burst of high-pitched music issued from the speakers, a mathematical sequence that Tall Eyebrow quickly translated for them.
"Sigma is greater than zero. X equals zero. Y equals zero. XY equals infinity."
"Very interesting," Carialle said. "To the rest of us folks, it means, 'Come to a stop; don't move; don't attempt to lift off. Any efforts will result in disintegration into uncountable particles. Not that I can move. They've got me held as tightly as a fly in amber."
The frustration in her voice was not lost on Keff. "Give them a moment to get to know us, Cari. We haven't sent out a herald yet."
Carialle's Lady Fair image appeared on the wall beside him and made a face. Keff grinned.
The security vehicle made one more sweep, zooming close to Carialle's dorsal hull, then there was a hash of static as several controller-based broadcasts collided in mid-frequency. Tall Eyebrow looked at Keff and shook his head. He couldn't translate any of that, either. IT's vocabulary base gathered dozens of new syllables and put them on a hold in the datastream.
From the buildings at the field's edge, a party of frogs emerged and began to make their way across the field. Instead of walking, they glided a few centimeters over most of the beautiful, green sward. Suspicious, Carialle did a scan of her own.
"Do you realize that these landing pads are almost the only dry land in sight?" she said, showing them a map of her soundings. "That bright verdure covers either mud or marsh, depending on where you step."
"I bet only the poor folks on this planet live on dry land," Keff said. "Water is riches around here."
"Then everyone's rich," Carialle said.
The welcoming committee came within half a kilometer and stopped. Keff counted eight frogs he would classify as dignitaries, and twice that many who were hangers-on, aides, and, to judge by the number of devices hovering in the air near them, reporters. Around them and the ship, the hovering security vehicles described slow circles. The three Ozranians stared at the images of their long-lost cousins, hands flying as they speculated on relationships.
"They are just like us," Long Hand said, with great interest.
"That's as far as they're going to come to meet us. You three had better make an appearance," Keff said.
"If . . ." Long Hand said, hands twitching nervously. She held onto her usual composure. "If they do not disapprove our coming."
"You won't know until you try," Carialle said, trying to lighten the situation. "But I know that our government would be thrilled beyond words to rediscover a long-lost colony. Go on."
At once, all three started to make a hasty toilette. Tall Eyebrow divested himself of his beret, sword belt, and cape. Small Spot checked his immaculate hide for dust or smudges. Long Hand dashed for the sonic shower and cleaned herself all over. They resumed their controller units on elastic belts around their chests. Tall Eyebrow already had his on from the game. Keff thought that they did it more for moral support than for use. Once out of the range of Carialle's engines, the ancient amulets would be of little use, even for keeping the skin of water around their bodies. The leader must have sensed Keff's thoughts, for even as he was fitting his long fingers into the five depressions on the bronzed surface of what once had been a lady's belt buckle, he gave a nervous smile.
"For luck only," he signed, crossing his two first fingers, "since they cannot work here. We must go without globes as well as the protective slip of water. I will return to our people's birthplace standing tall and with dignity, ignoring inconvenience and discomfort."
Small Spot looked unhappy about his leader's last statement, but he too stood tall, and strode with what dignity he had toward the airlock.
"If we can do it without losing our pride," Long Hand said, more practically, "I will ask our cousins how to adapt the amulets to their system."
Carialle opened a tiny panel in her outer hull. A balloon pump took a fifteen cubic centimeter sample of the oxygen, which she ran through a barrage of tests for gas density, humidity, and chemical impurities. It confirmed what she had already guessed.
"The atmosphere's safe for all of you," she said. "Good, healthy nitrox mix, few harmful impurities, apart from a trace of predictable industrial pollution. More particulates than you three are used to, but not bad. If you want breathing filters, just ask."
Tall Eyebrow signed a polite refusal. He stared straight ahead of him as Keff moved to the controls for the airlock.
Keff stayed behind and out of sight as the ramp lowered and grounded with a squish. The Ozranians hung back a moment, reluctant to leave the surroundings that were, if not home, then safe and familiar.
"Go on," Keff urged them. "I'll be right behind you."
The amphibioids looked out across the field. Keff tried to picture himself in their place, to be the first to bridge the gap of a thousand years' silence, and was overwhelmed by the urgency of explaining, the enormity of understanding. Keff realized he had forgotten to breathe for a moment. Their feelings must have been shared by the party of dignitaries. The small party of dignitaries had pushed forward ahead of the crowd, and were looking expectantly at the ship's hatch. There was no perceptible physical difference between them and the three Ozran-born Cridi. Seeing no movement, the party surged forward again.
"It's your turn," Keff said, straightening up. "Are you ready?"
"No," Tall Eyebrow signed, "but, yes. Come."
With dignity, the small alien turned and walked out of the main cabin. Long Hand and Small Spot followed his example, straightening their spines and tilting their heads slightly upward. Together, they marched through the corridor and into the airlock. Carialle slid the inner door shut, and the outer door open.
Keff, right behind them in the shadows, heard shrill cheers as the crowd caught the first glimpse of the three Ozranians in the starship's airlock. In silhouette against the bright daylight outside, Keff could see Tall Eyebrow's knees begin to tremble. Small Spot, overwhelmed by the sound, edged backward until he bumped into Keff's legs.
"You can do it," he urged them. "Go on. Take that one last step. Just march forward. Count to a hundred. Don't think about anything but the numbers. Go on."
"One," TE counted out loud in Standard. "Two, three, four . . . " The other two marched behind them, out of the airlock, down the ramp, and into the sunshine. The crowd went wild, throwing flowers and sheaves of green plants into the air. Keff stayed behind to watch. He counted their footsteps. A hundred paces took the three visitors about half the way to the party of dignitaries on the edge of the field. There they hesitated, and the Cridi government officials took their cue at once. Dignified but clearly excited, they glided across the swampy ground, to alight in front of Tall Eyebrow and his companions.
"Go get 'em, frogs! Yeah!" he whispered.
"I'm all choked up," Carialle said in his ear.
Keff squinted, bringing the magnifying lens in his left eye to full telescopy, and listened to Carialle's amplified audio. He could see the expressions on the faces of the dignitaries: bemusement, kindness, curiosity, but no hostility. The globe-frogs had come home.
"Who are you?" signed the leader of the Cridi delegation, an elderly male whose once-smooth skin wrinkled into a million tiny folds around his wide mouth. A narrow cape of ornately braided strips hung to the ground from the nape of his neck. It was held there by a hammered bronze band that stretched across the top of his back and sprouted into filigree coils over his shoulders. "Where do you come from? We have seen the message sent to the beacon, and we do not know what to think."
Another Cridi, a slender female wearing a slim silver torc with matching bracelets and anklets piped an enthusiastic, "B equals B," and signed, "We agree! Since we received your transmission, all has been a flurry of excitement. Where do you come from?"
Tall Eyebrow identified himself and his companions. "We return to you from a colony world known as Ozran." The final name emerged as a buzz and a honk.
"Ozran?" one self-important frog repeated, bellying up to stand before the landing party. Of all the Cridi present, he was the largest: broad, round, and tall. His yellow green skin was mottled, reflecting a choleric nature. "What is this name Ozran?" he peeped indignantly. "Not a Cridi name." Keff chuckled to himself. It wasn't easy for a whistle to sound dignified.
"Big Voice is impatient, but he asks a question all of the Conclave have," said the elder. He brushed the palm of one hand lightly over the other and touched a delicate fingertip to his chest. "I am Smooth Hand," he said.
"In our ancestors' records our world is designated as Sky Clear." Tall Eyebrow executed two symbols quickly, and vocalized a long, complex trill. Keff's aural implant barked out a long string of numbers punctuated with signs and symbols. He recognized the resultant formula as spatial coordinates, though naturally not those used by the Central Worlds.
Without changing expression the self-important frog leaned back on his heels and waved a single finger. One of the aides came running up to the leaders with a flat board to show them his notation. The eight leaders gathered around, emitting exclamations of disbelief and amazement. The aide moved back into the crowd, signing in an apparent aside to a friend. Everyone within range observed the gist of his statement, and passed it on. Word went around, catching fire within the group, until everyone was speculating about the data on the screen.
"How is this possible?" the senior Cridi said, looking up from the small board with delight. "We thought that colony had died. It was mourned many hundreds of years past. So many of our world's offshoots have failed, we thought that Sky Clear was just one more."
"We lost touch with Cridi through no fault of our own," Tall Eyebrow said. "It is a story of treachery, survival and, lastly, friendship, with beings like Keff." He turned to look expectantly back at the ship.
"My cue," Keff said, pulling down his tunic hem to make certain it was straight.
"I should say so," Carialle said. "Final subvocal check, please."
"If the folks back at SSS-900-C could see me now," Keff pronounced, into his oral implant as he stepped out into the airlock and walked down the ramp.
"You'd be the handsome prince from the fairy tale," Carialle said, amused. "Don't let anyone kiss you, or you'll turn back into a frog, too. Watch your step."
The high humidity of the air outside slapped him in the face like a wet fish. Keff felt almost as if he were walking through a curtain of water, and highly unsavory swamp water at that. Phew. What he'd imagined looked like smooth, rolling fields was a level and endless pool of watery mud with petal-like plants growing on top, giving only an impression of solidity. He'd go floundering if he chanced to step off the solid base of the landing pad. No wonder nothing was ever built out on these open spaces. The atmosphere was breathable and flavored with smelly esters from abundant plant decay. Good photosynthesis action, that meant, resulting in the cyclic exchange of carbon dioxide. No wonder their explorers had chosen Ozran. The Cridi wanted the same things humans did in a colony. The xenobiologists were going to have a picnic here. As long as they didn't spread their cloth out on the green.
Keff moved slowly and cautiously, holding his hands away from his body to show that he was harmless, but there was no way to lessen the impact of his appearance on the crowd. As soon as they saw him, some of the Cridi scattered and ran away, shrieking. The rest stood rigid, staring and pointing, rows upon rows of pairs of beady black eyes, and long, green digits like accusatory asparagus.
He raised his arms to his waist to sign, "We come in peace."
His hands fluttered through the motions, then froze in the air by his belly. He tugged, trying to free himself from the invisible force. Nothing doing. The shock of his appearance had delayed security's reaction, but they were in command again. Cridi amulet power surrounded him with a rock-hard shell of invisible force, clamping him in place and forcing his arms down against his sides. He gasped, but not because of the jungle heat. The forcefield was just a little too tight around his chest. If it closed down any harder, he'd pass out. Giddily, he wondered if he would remain erect.
A host of helmeted frogs all but materialized at his side, preparing to defend against him should he move at all—as if he could.
"TE, tell them I'm your friend!" Keff gritted, willing his lips to move. Black spots danced in front of his eyes at the strain.
He wasn't sure if he could be heard over the screaming, but TE was a superlative lip reader. The Ozranian turned to sign at his hosts.
"Release him! Please!" Tall Eyebrow said, making energetic gestures at the eight leaders. "These are my friends, and the representatives of a great government, here to be our friends." He trotted back across the field and placed himself between Keff and the guards. "You must not treat them like animals or enemies."
The members of the conclave peered at Keff from a safe distance and Keff could feel his restraints ease off slightly. The youngest one took a step forward, thought better of it, and retreated to the far side of the solid platform. Smooth Hand, he of the ribbon cape, tilted his head to one side.
"Well, they are strange to us," he said, apologetically. "So large. Such an odd color in the face. And there is another one onboard the ship. Why will it not come out and show itself?"
"Because she cannot," TE said, emphasizing the feminine pronoun. "She lives within the walls, and never moves. Keff and Carialle are my friends and have been our defenders on the colony world of Ozran."
"Sky Clear!" the self-important one corrected him imperiously. "Why have you changed the name?"
"It is the name by which the joined colony of people like Keff and our own race is known," Long Hand added. "Humans live on the world with us."
"When the homeworld lost touch with Sky Clear there were none but Cridi there," Smooth Hand said, referring to the data pad, which was held for him by a female in a red cloak.
"It would take long to explain by hand," TE said, looking back at his own aides. "We have archives to give you."
Small Spot, smiting himself in the head to show abashment for his forgetfulness, ran back into the ship to get the boxes of records.
Carialle, guessing what he wanted, had thoughtfully rolled out one of her small servo drones, and the excited globe-frog loaded the boxes aboard its flat back. The boxy robot followed him out to the waiting crowd, trundling stoutly over the soggy ground.
"We present to you the complete records for the life of our colony," Tall Eyebrow signed proudly. He stood back from the drone and allowed some of the guards to remove the boxes from its platform. Carialle recalled her robot, ordering it to spin its treads at the bottom of the ramp to avoid trudging mud over her decks.
"A magnificent gift," said the female in silver bangles. She pried open one of the containers and lifted out one of the tightly wound spools of plastic inside. "Unlooked-for treasure. It will make interesting reading. Scholars will vie for the honor of transcribing."
The elder statesman held up his hands to get the attention of the whole crowd. "We welcome you home, cousins, and look forward to writing joint history from now on," said Smooth Hand. "Perhaps together we will discover the well-being of other lost children of Cridi."
The old one stretched out his arms toward Tall Eyebrow, palms out. The Ozranian stepped forward, and laid his large hands against those of the elder. The crowd cheered again, and surrounded the three travelers. The senior Cridi beckoned.
"We all have much to discuss. But come, you are our honored guests. You shall have the finest accommodations, sample the best foods, visit sites of our history and of our future." He put an arm around Tall Eyebrow's back and led him toward the spaceport buildings surrounded by the chirping horde. Suddenly he looked back, an afterthought occuring to him. "Oh, bring the giant, too."
A guard waved his hand, and Keff stumbled forward.
"Depot in range," said Glashton, the pilot, over his shoulder. "I'm keeping that string of asteroids between us and their sensors."
"Good." Mirina Don paced back and forth behind the pilots' couches, peering at the computer construction of the asteroid-bound repair facility. Old, but well-supplied, if their scout's report was anything to go by. And they'd recently had a delivery that interested the Melange. "Notify Bisman."
The young Thelerie in the co-pilot's seat threw off his straps and arose, prepared to run aft. Mirina caught him by a wing-joint and turned him back. "No, Sunset. Use the intercom."
"Yes, madam," he said, his slit-like pupils wide. He scrambled back into his padded couch and reached out one skinny wing-hand to activate the communications channel, at the same time keeping track of the ship's progress. He lay rather than sat in the couch, his mighty haunches curled up behind, leaving free clawed forelegs and wing-fingers so that his head was between two agile pairs of hands. The boffins told her that with their long eyes they could watch both sets at once. He glanced back at her eagerly. "He is on his way."
Mirina shook her head. So young. So heartbreakingly anxious to please. Some of the Thelerie never got over their initial awe of humans, never stopped seeing them as benevolent gods, whose bidding must be done no matter how perilous. Not even after their first missions, when the humans proved themselves to be thieves and pirates. The Thelerie just kept on trusting them, even against the evidence. Their ethical culture told them that a person was what he said he was, even if he wasn't. That made them jam for the dishonest beings in the galaxy like the Melange.
Mirina felt responsible for all the Thelerie they enrolled. She suffered nightmares when one of them got injured or killed, and still dreamed about the first time she had had to take the body of an apprentice back to its homeworld. As guilty as she was, the alien family didn't blame her. They trusted humans, not realizing that they were as mortal as Thelerie, with no special powers to save anyone, or any special wisdom to keep them from falling into danger. They thought everything humans did was wonderful. It never occured to them that the ships the humans flew were old, cobbled together out of spare parts and baling wire. They never saw that the couches had been mended a dozen times, nor that the equipment in the control room came from a dozen different derelict ships, and failed as often as it worked.
She'd once been told by a suitor that she had fine eyes. The mirror in her cramped little cabin let her know that the strain of the last years had put a hard quality into them that frightened her, and would have put off that long-gone beau. That tough shell protected what was left of her soul, because business was business. The presence of the Thelerie was essential to the success of her venture. There'd have been far more bloodshed, and much more loss of life if she couldn't rely upon their unique talent. Even to herself she admitted that she minimized the danger in every way possible. She didn't want anyone else to die. Anyone.
"Close in," she said, leaning over Glashton's shoulder. "Plot us in, staying as close to the asteroids as possible till the last minute. I don't want them to have time to push the panic button. Can you see the parts depot?"
"Aye, sir."
Bisman came striding up. He had on an armored pressure suit, the helmet held under one arm. His grizzled hair was hidden under the protective hood, and his sharp, dark eyes were calm.
"Boarding party ready," he said shortly.
"Stand by," Mirina said, turning back to the viewtank. "How long to the drop?"
Sunset ran through one of those instantaneous mental calculations that seemed so effortless for his people.
"Eight minutes, madam."
"Don't call me madam," Mirina snapped, yanked back with annoyance from her planning.
"Sorry again," he said, contritely. "Thunderstorm told me always to use titles of respect."
Mirina felt the corners of her mouth start to turn upward in an unwilling smile. "My name will do. Thank you. Stand by."
"At least he isn't calling you 'holy one,' any more," her brother called from the engineer's seat, where he was waiting to operate the airlock and grapple controls.
Sunset glanced up at the human male, then hastily ducked his head. Bisman smirked at the young Thelerie, his narrow jaws drawn upward. Mirina glared at her co-leader.
"Isn't anyone else here thinking of business?"
"On my way," he said, fending off the evil eye with an uplifted hand.
"Wait a minute, Aldon," Mirina said, as he turned to go. "Remember, just grab those containers and go. No killing."
"That's the idea, lady," he said, offhandedly, holding his helmet up over his head and shaking it to free the hanging tabs. "Strike hard so they don't know where you're coming from, then move out. But I'm not going to stand helpless and let them tickle me. My people will use self-defense as needed." Mirina moved to place herself in his path.
"Disarm and disable only. Those are my orders. Just take the stuff and go!"
He paid no attention as he clamped the headpiece into place. The seals whistled a diminishing scale as he sidestepped her and stalked away down the corridor toward the airlock.
Mirina stared after him, feeling fury rising fit to choke her. There wasn't time to lecture him again, and she was beginning to feel like she was losing control of him. She'd turned this operation around into a profit-making enterprise. He and his miserable little group had only three pathetically archaic ships when she met him eight years ago. Now they had sixty, and more under construction. She'd been confirmed as the leader by a majority of the vote. But there were some people who couldn't take direction from anyone, especially from not a former government spacer like her. Bisman had been raiding for thirty years, had started under his father, who'd owned the original three ships. Anyone who'd survived that long deserved respect, just for sheer longevity, but damn it, it was bad for crew morale to have him defy her every single order. She snatched up her remote communications headset and clamped it down on her head.
Zonzalo sat in the engineer's seat snickering. Mirina rounded on him.
"What are you laughing at? You couldn't survive in a planetside shopping center."
"Hey," he held up helpless hands. "I didn't say anything. It just reminds me of Mom and Dad, how you two carry on."
"I suppose I asked for that," Mirina said, feeling her cheeks burn. "But I want him to remember what I say."
"It won't help," Zonzalo said. "It never does. I don't know why you keep trying."
Mirina shook her head. She and Bisman had had an affair when she first shipped with them eight Standard years before. He was twenty years older than she. She was attracted by his maturity, by his long, lean looks, daredevil attitude, and hard-driving determination. He liked her clear-sighted organizational bent, and he complimented her on her figure, saying he liked a curvy armful. They'd broken off the physical side of their relationship when they found they couldn't work together and be lovers. He thought she was compulsive. She hated his collections of little knicknacks and his untidy way of thinking. He'd said she was too bossy. She'd known his recklessness would get them all killed. At almost any cost Mirina wanted to stay in space, but serving under a hot dog who thought he was Jean Lafitte or Xak Milliane Ya was just out of her price range. Bisman was too casual about killing. Mirina wasn't a complete innocent. She had been involved with, or rather felt responsible for, the death of one so dear to her she'd never recovered from it. Mirina never wanted to feel like that again, but she was exposed to the possibility over and over every time their ship went reiving. So, at risk of having Bisman mutiny and strand her and Zonzalo somewhere out of frustration, she kept on his back about safety and minimum use of force.
"You are just like my teacher, Thunderstorm," Sunset said, in his resonant voice, glancing up as his four hands performed his tasks. "He tells and tells, but I make my mistakes all the same."
Zonzalo laughed. He'd become friends with the Thelerie, partly because they were the youngest beings on board and partly because he thought Sunset's innocent pronouncements hilarious.
"She is just exactly like a thunderstorm in space, isn't she?" Zonzalo said. "Uh-oh, the clouds are moving toward me." Mirina advanced upon him and glared down. Zonzalo pretended to cower, his shoulders hunched. Mirina swatted him lightly across the back.
"Act like adults," she snapped. "In case you weren't listening, some of our spacers are going down there. Their safety depends on you, too. Pay attention to your boards." The two young males exchanged humorous glances, then concentrated on their screens.
"Approach final. Attacking speed," Glashton said, not looking up from his console. "Grapples away!"
On the main tank, the background of stars shimmered as the forcefields locked onto five points surrounding the space station. The engines filled the ship with the scream of abused metal as the reiver dumped velocity, using the grapple anchors to halt forward momentum. On external camera, Mirina watched as the flexible white tube shot outward from the side of her ship to cover the airlock of the repair port and sucked closed. Bulbous-headed shadows inside it—Bisman's raiders in armor—bounded downward. There was an actinic flash, from which everyone in the cockpit automatically shielded his or her eyes, then Glashton switched video and audio input to a suit-mounted cam on the uniform of one of the raiders.
The crew plunged ahead into the darkness of the landing bay. Narrow beams of light slashed through the black tunnel, picking out steel-riveted walls, signs and directions etched in enamel next to huge louvered doors and at intersections. Two raiders found a communications circuit box and blasted it with slugs and energy weapons. That should have cut off external communications, but it also caused the inhabitants of the station to take notice. Sirens wailed in the distance. Blurred figures, bleached white by the raiders' searchlights, cannoned into view, weapons leveled. Bisman's people were ready. Mirina watched arms being raised, saw the spark of muzzle-flash. The defenders fell, arms splayed. A few of the raiders ran forward to collect their guns.
Bisman's voice barked hoarsely. "They'll only be out for about twenty minutes. Find the control room. Find the lights! Move it!"
Mirina held her breath as the camera eye followed the bobbing forms deeper into the repair facility. Someone found the control for the lights. The white blurs coalesced into armored backs and armloads of equipment. The siren's discordance chewed away at her nerves until she was tapping her foot with impatience, mentally urging Bisman to hurry and get out of there.
The louvered doors flapped up one by one, revealing empty bays. Suddenly, a door rolled up, and the hoped-for containers were right in front of the video pickup. The inventory numbers for ion-drive engine parts were printed on the side and top of each case. Zonzalo and Glashton cheered. Mirina pointed at the corral of heavy-loaders in the foreground of the screen, and snapped an order into the headset mike. Bisman had seen them, too. His hand appeared in the lens, making an "OK" symbol.
"All right, children, start loading 'em up!" The triumph in Bisman's voice came through the plasteel bubble helmet. Mirina felt smug, too. Even if they only sold half and kept the rest for running repairs and trade with the Thelerie, those engine parts should bring in enough to keep her fleet in space for another six months, at least.
"Hold it! Drop your weapons!" A commanding voice boomed out of the walls. The raiders looked around. His arms held up from the elbows, Mirina's video-carrier turned slowly to face a squad of guards in dark blue uniforms. At their head was a tall, thin woman with silver hair. Her tunic was trimmed with more silver, including rows of medal flashes. From the confident manner with which she held her long-barreled slugthrower, Mirina guessed that some of the medals were for marksmanship. Some of Bisman's crew began to comply, bending over to set their guns on the ground. The raiders were outnumbered at least two to one. Mirina bit her lip. She dreaded what would surely follow.
"Slowly . . ." the woman said, in a calm voice. "Slowly. Good. Now, hands above your heads."
"Now!" Bisman shouted. As one, the raiders dropped flat on the floor. The screen went blank. "Fire!" Mirina could tell by the sounds, they were spraying the defenders with energy bolts. Shouts, then screams erupted, followed by the noise of scuffling. Individual cries rose above the noise.
"What's happening?" Zonzalo asked. He had joined his sister to hang over the viewscreen. Mirina felt her blood drain away toward her feet. She swayed a little.
"It's all going wrong," she said, and turned to Glashton. "Shake 'em up. Give Bisman and the others a chance to get out."
The pilot nodded sharply, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He clawed at a series of controls, activating their secret weapon, the Slime Ball. The ship shuddered under their feet as it lit thrusters and pulled against the grapples. Always steering outward, so the return motion wouldn't yank the asteroid into their hull, Glashton zigzagged from one thruster to another.
The effect as seen on the screen was frightening. The raider wearing the camera was now lying on his back. The ceiling shook, and the giant plates seemed to rub against one another. Mirina wondered if they would crack apart and fall.
The crates of parts were vibrating, too, with every thrust of the ship. Inside their padding, the components were undoubtedly safe from impact damage even if they fell over, but if one landed on a human, there was nothing left to do but hold the funeral.
While those in the ship had suffered a temporary loss of visuals, Bisman and his crew had regained their weapons. Between surges, the raiders managed to round up most of the defenders. A few blue-shirts lay, heads a-loll, on the floor; unconscious, Mirina hoped. Bisman and two of the others, kneeling, held the rest at gunpoint while the raiders mounted heavy-loaders and lifted stacks of the valuable crates. The stationmaster made one attempt to protest. Bisman nodded to one of his gunners, who ratcheted her weapon to a higher setting, and with one sweep slagged the metal floor in front of the silver-haired woman. The others gasped as the woman nearly stumbled forward into the red-hot mass. She stopped protesting, her hands in the air, but her eyes flashed hatred at Bisman. The loaders trundled out of the storeroom.
Zonzalo ran to his station to open the cargo bay to receive the coming crates. He cackled to himself over each load as it passed the cameras.
"Thruster modules," he said over his shoulder to the others. "Energy reburner pods! My God, do you know what those are worth? One new fuel tank, two, three—too bad there aren't a few more."
"They'll all put oxygen in the tanks," Mirina said distantly. She was watching Bisman, worrying whether he would make some violent gesture at the end to keep the defenders from following. Glashton spoke over the helmet communication link, letting the raiders know that the violent jerking was over. The ship still swayed lightly from side to side from inertia, but everyone could stand up again.
"Mi— Mirina, do not those boxes belong to the humans of the station-asteroid?"
"They did," Mirina said tersely. "Now they are ours. We need them more. Your people need them to keep your space program running. Those humans would have refused to give them to us. This was the only way." But she had the picture in her mind of the uniformed men and women on the floor. Something about the ragdoll quality of the way they lay shouted at her that they were not unconscious, but dead. Bisman had overdone it again. Instead of a simple snatch and grab, they had more murders on their souls, not to mention their growing rap sheets in the Central Worlds computer bank.
Glashton, responding to a triumphant cry from Zonzalo that the last of the heavy-loaders was on board and the raiding crew with it, sealed airlocks and blasted away. He gave an OK to Mirina, who yanked off her headset and squeezed herself with difficulty between the pilots' couches against the thrust of the engines. Her flesh flattened against her bones, and she shut her eyes.
God, who'd ever have thought I'd come to this? she mused, wriggling her body down farther to avoid somersaulting out into the corridor. Fairhaired child of the corps, ace pilot, partner of . . . Damn it, stop thinking of him! She turned her concentration to the star tank, drilling the hologram with her gaze. The star, around which the asteroid circled, shrank swiftly until it was another undistinguished dot of light on the scope. Just like all the other stars around which orbited facilities, planets, and ships they'd robbed for goods to keep them going.
"Shall I not go out there some day on a gathering mission?" Sunset asked Mirina, once they were clear of the heliopause.
"No," she said shortly, pulling her attention away from the star tank. "Never. You must be kept safe in the ship."
"But . . ."
"But nothing," Mirina interrupted him. She leveled a finger at his weird, striped eyes. "You don't understand your place in the schematic. You're the backup we count on in case of emergency. If we lose every system but drives and life support, you can get us home again, even if our navicomp is a slagged ruin. You're the last line of defense we have. I'm not letting you go out there and risk your neck, not when thirty other lives are depending on you."
"Oh." The young Thelerie pulled himself up, looking important and nervous and proud all at the same time. Mirina bit her tongue at having to tell him a lie, since sooner or later he'd meet up with others of his race who had joined the raiding parties after they'd apprenticed on the navigation board. But he was too young now. He'd be a liability to himself and the raiding crew.
"My center is sure," he told her.
"Good," Mirina sighed. "Keep it that way."
Bisman handed his way into the control room. His armored suit, now dusty, bore the black streak of a laser shot that impacted over the sternum and skidded upward toward his left ear. He grinned triumphantly.
"A megacredit run, at least," he crowed.
"Is everyone back on board?" Mirina asked.
"Yeah. Simborne and Mdeng bought it. They're cooling in the cargo bay with the containers."
"How many injured?"
"Not too many," Bisman said, offhandedly. "Fewer than the blue-shirts, that's for sure."
"How many?" Mirina asked, and she knew he knew she wasn't asking for the list of wounded. Bisman pursed his lips and shrugged. "How many?"
"Five? Six or seven at the most."
"What?" she gasped. "What were you doing? Why did there have to be casualties?"
Sunset glanced up, then hurriedly ducked his head behind his wing to avoid the leader's glare. He was shocked at how angry she was.
"But you wanted those parts," Bisman complained. "They wouldn't give them up. What were we supposed to do?"
"That electroshock weapon of yours has more than one setting, doesn't it?" Mirina asked nastily, stepping up to the big male. Bisman retreated a pace out of surprise.
"He was going to pull an alarm! I had to stop him, quick! Damn, I'm tired of your jawing, Miri. We're partners, right? I make some of the decisions, right?"
Mirina's brown-in-white eyes filled with water—tears—and she said huskily, "I had a partner once. He died. I don't want to hear about partners. We're co-leaders. They owe us the stuff, right?" she said, mocking him. "They owe us, but they don't owe us their lives."
What she said made sense to Sunset, but Bisman appeared ready to disagree with her. Humans' flat faces were full of emotion, easy to read. Bisman's cheeks turned red, and his eyes stood out. Sunset thought for a moment he would strike Mirina, but he clenched his hands and left the room. Mirina's round face was set. She stared after the male, then closed her eyes. Sunset could see a slight vibration shake her body.
"There's enough in this shipment, Miri," Zonzalo spoke up softly from his station. "We could settle down somewhere on our share. CW would never find us. How about the nice place we stopped before we were on Base Fifteen the last time? We're heading back that way. We could scope out a place, buy some land?"
"No," Mirina said, opening her eyes. "I can't settle. I hate being groundbound. I prefer to be out here, in the blackness, away from people."
Sunset spread the shoulder pinions of his wings in acknowledgement. He had caught her many times just staring out into the void, communing. Space spoke to her in a way he had always believed it did to the blessed ones. That was no doubt why she was so cross when he interrupted her. Zonzalo was easier to befriend. Mirina turned suddenly to him, and the young Thelerie jumped, wondering if she could read his thoughts.
"Which way's your world, Sunset?" she asked. Without hesitation, he pointed toward his Center, and she sighted along his wing-finger.
"We count on you, you know that," she said, wearily. Sunset nodded. "Good. Go take a rest."
"You should, too, ma— Mirina." Then he dropped on all fours and hurried out of the control room, surprised by his own boldness. The woman stared after him.
Zonzalo waved at his sister, and pointed at a light on his control board.
"Message coming in," he said. Mirina stood over his shoulder and watched the brief transmission.
"Route it to Bisman," she said at once. "He has to hear this."
The co-leader was in the control room almost at once.
"A ship penetrated the other P-sector system near Base Eight? We have to send word to have the others destroy it!"
"We can't," Mirina said. "It's landed on the second planet. It's protected. Listen to this all the way through." She signalled to Zonzalo to play it back again.
"The reptiles," Bisman said, exasperated. "The Slime. Damn it, I thought we had them bottled." He recorded a return message to their base. "Keep an eye out. If anything else happens, take appropriate action and notify us at once. Appropriate action," he repeated, with heavy emphasis, and one eye on Mirina. She glared at him, but held her tongue.