by Jim C. Hines
A blue status icon appeared on her monocle, displaying suit integrity and confirming she had twenty minutes of air. Additional icons provided the same information for her team.
“Wolf, you’ve got a helmet leak,” she said.
“I see it.” Wolf scowled and grabbed a roll of metallic gold tape from her equipment harness. She tore off a strip and stretched it over the left side of her helmet.
The lone green icon on Mops’ monocle turned blue a moment later. Their uniforms were standard maintenance jumpsuits, and weren’t designed for long-term space work, but they’d be more than enough for the walk from the shuttle to the Comacean air lock.
“Touchdown in twenty seconds,” called Monroe.
The grav beams set the shuttle down as gently as a Quetzalus returning an egg to the nest. Monroe glanced at a checklist taped to the wall, reviewed his console, and twisted around in his chair. “All systems are blue.”
“Everyone grab a PRA.” Mops detached her harness from the seat and opened an overhead compartment to retrieve one of the personal respiration adjusters. The air mixture inside the Comacean was formulated for Quetzalus. The PRAs would provide trace adjustments to their oxygen intake to keep everyone fully alert.
She looped the PRA around her neck like a medallion. “Wolf, you’re staying with the shuttle.”
Wolf froze, PRA in hand. “But Monroe’s the pilot.”
“Monroe won’t punch out our escort.” Mops waited, arms crossed, until Wolf stuffed the PRA back into the compartment. “Yes, I know what happened at Crossroads Station last week.”
“That Glacidae had it coming,” Wolf muttered. “You think they oozed lubricating fluid in my soup by accident?”
“The prelaunch procedure should be programmed and ready to go,” said Mops. “All you have to do is flip the switch.”
“It’s an interactive touch/voice menu, not an actual switch,” Rubin clarified.
“I know, I know.” Wolf returned to the cockpit and dropped into the pilot’s seat.
“Keep an eye out for unexpected company,” said Mops. “Maintain an open channel with the Pufferfish, and a second line with me. That’s the other reason I need you here. Monroe doesn’t know comms like you do, and we can’t afford to lose contact.”
Wolf straightened a little at the acknowledgment of her newfound expertise.
“Stay suited up until the shuttle’s completely repressurized,” Mops reminded her. “Just in case.”
“I know the regs.” Wolf offered a half-hearted salute and punched the door controls, closing off the cockpit from the rest of the shuttle.
The cabin lights turned green as the air thinned. Mops’ suit puffed out slightly in response. “No projectile weapons inside the Comacean,” she reminded them. “Combat batons only.”
Hopefully, they wouldn’t need weapons. Humanity’s reputation as savages should convince the workers to give them a wide berth.
The rest of their equipment was standard SHS gear. If anyone asked, they could claim to be a cleanup crew doing contract work.
The hatch fell silently open, becoming a ramp leading to a path marked with blue light strips.
“Stay between the lights,” Rubin warned over the comm. “Comaceans aren’t massive enough to generate significant gravity. Step off the grav plates, and you’ll float away.”
Mops spotted two other shuttle-class vessels parked nearby. The first was Quetzalus in design, tall and blocky, like a house ripped from its foundations. The second was Merraban, painted in a jarring color scheme of cheerful red, green, and pink.
Beyond the square metal plates and the border lights, the Comacean’s skin reminded her of volcanic rock: wrinkled and pitted and cracked. Veins of dark green ice filled the deepest cracks.
The way the surface curved away in all directions triggered a primitive part of her brain, making her feel like her next step would send her falling toward the stars. “Doc, where’s my ship?”
A glowing arrow appeared on her monocle. She turned her head until she spied an oversized silhouette of the Pufferfish. With all essential systems shut down, the Pufferfish should be safely invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look.
“This is cruel,” murmured Rubin. She crouched at the very edge of the “road,” where the overlapping grav plates were “stitched” to the Comacean’s skin with black polymer cable.
“The Comaceans have evolved to take micrometeoroid strikes.” Mops pointed to a small crater to the left of the road. “I doubt this one even noticed a few piercings. The Quetzalus have specialists seeing to the health of the herd, not to mention a team of lawyers making sure they comply with Alliance laws about the treatment of rare or endangered life-forms.”
“Alliance laws.” Rubin continued toward the air lock. “Laws that permit one species to modify and colonize another? I wouldn’t trust their laws to protect my pet slug, let alone the Comaceans.”
Her voice, normally atonal, grew louder at the end, revealing the depth of her unhappiness.
The dome ahead rotated to reveal a triangular air lock door, which slid open a moment later. The air lock was large enough to hold multiple Quetzalus. For three humans, it was more spacious than the entire Pufferfish shuttle.
The door slid shut, the lift pressurized, and the whole thing sank down with a faint slurping sound. This was one of eight blowholes spread around the Comacean’s body: four toward the front, and four more near the tail. The creature only breathed when inside a planet’s atmosphere, so there was little chance of her snorting the lift and its occupants into space.
Artificial gravity couldn’t fully compensate for the vertigo as they followed the Comacean’s airpipe toward one of the lungs.
“Welcome to Biorefinery Eighteen, a Zenkozan family business,” a mechanically-translated voice announced. “We have identified you as human. If this is incorrect, please state your species name and preferred language now.”
After a pause, the voice continued. “You are responsible for obeying all safety regulations and posted signs. As you are human, please pay particular attention to the following rules. One: Eating Zenkozan employees is strictly forbidden. Two: Eating the Comacean is also forbidden.”
“Our reputation precedes us,” commented Mops.
Monroe grunted. “Probably a good thing Wolf stayed behind.”
The lift stopped. Eventually, the door opened to reveal two Quetzalus. Each massed roughly the same as an Earth elephant. Dull, patchy hair covered their yellow-brown skin. Both wore metal cuffs near the base of the upper part of their beaks. The devices appeared to be a combination translator/computer interface/identification. Clipped to the lower beaks were short metal tubes.
“Electric stunners,” said Doc. “Short-range. Probably not powerful enough to kill a human, but it would leave you twitching on the floor in a puddle of your own piss.”
Mops was less concerned about the stunners than she was about those computers. The average Quetzalus might not be able to tell one human from another, but if their systems identified Mops and the others as wanted fugitives, this mission could get clogged up fast.
Both Quetzalus were nervous, judging from the dim blue glow of their tongues. It might be nothing more than having to get close to humans. Mops kept one hand near her combat baton, just in case.
The closer of the two—the lack of a crest atop her head marked her as female—cocked her head. Probably listening to instructions via an implant. “You are Captain Jean-François Paillard?”
“That’s right.” Mops had chosen the alias after confirming the real Captain Paillard was helping with security and relief efforts at a Krakau colony twenty-three light-years away. “We made arrangements with Zan Zenkozan to pick up one of your guests.”
Said arrangements had mostly involved transferring a significant amount of money into the Zenkozan family coffers. Given Quetzal
us economics, it was less a bribe than a tip. If they’d done the numbers right, it would be enough to ensure cooperation and secrecy without being so extravagant as to raise suspicions.
The male’s bushy red crest was fully erect. A wave of orange light rippled through his hair. Quetzalus “hair” was more like biological fiber optic cable, with different colors of light indicating strong emotions.
“Is there a problem?” asked Monroe.
The female clacked her beak, making a sound like wooden planks smacking together. Hard. Mops had heard Quetzalus laughter before, but it still made her flinch reflexively.
“Quil is expressing relief. I am Ulique Laccalos. Quil and I are thrilled at your arrival and will happily escort you to your passenger.”
“How quickly can you take him?” asked Quil.
Mops blinked. “Our shuttle is ready to launch. We can go as soon as—”
“He’s in the commissary,” interrupted Ulique. “This way, please.”
Their eagerness to be rid of their guest made Mops more nervous, not less. Who—or what—had Admiral Pachelbel sent them to retrieve?
With a sigh, she left the air lock and hurried to keep up with the long-legged Quetzalus.
* * *
The passageway reminded Mops of a flexible ship-to-ship boarding tube, only larger, with an odd series of vertical bulges striping the walls. Orange-tinged light strips ran along either side, half a meter above human eye level. Gravity was a third of Earth normal.
Monroe ran a hand over one of the rounded bulges on the wall. “Structural reinforcements?”
“In a sense,” answered Ulique. “Those are bones.”
Mops frowned. “I thought we were inside the equivalent of a bronchial tube.”
“We are,” said Quil. “Diminutive creatures like yourselves require far less skeletal support than one as magnificent as B-18. We’ve developed several new manufacturing techniques based on the Comacean’s ability to grow flexible metal-infused cartilage.”
Mops took a closer look. “Kumar would love this.”
“Probably why he insisted I record everything for him,” said Doc. “He also asked if we could bring him back, and I quote, ‘Some parts to dissect.’”
“Confirming I made the right call to leave him on the Pufferfish for this one.” Mops doubted Kumar’s enthusiasm for all things biological would have gone over well with their hosts. Or with Rubin.
Another air lock opened onto an open metal platform, enclosed beneath a clear dome. Mops’ breath stopped as she took in the enormous blue cavern stretching out before and below them—the Comacean’s lung. The bulging air sacs lining the surface of the lung made Mops think of the inside of a pomegranate.
Quetzalus worked in circular pitlike stations, each one holding three or four individuals around a central computer terminal. The younger ones lit up with anxiety at the sight of the humans.
A maze of narrowing tunnels stretched away from the domed platform, many disappearing into the lung walls. These were similar in color to the Comacean’s skin, dark with green lines running beneath the surface.
According to the specs Doc shared through her monocle, the Quetzalus had settled eight of the larger air pockets within the lung, including cargo and equipment, residences, and a secure control area. This was communications and transport.
“We’ve colonized several other organs,” Quil said proudly. “Including four gizzards and a section of . . . I believe in humans, it would be called the liver.”
After checking the air readings, Mops unsealed her helmet and activated her PRA. A puff of metal-scented oxygen tickled her face. The air smelled faintly swamplike. Old instincts kicked in, and she glanced around for mold. She found nothing but the faint oily sheen left behind by cleaning drones.
“What’s that music?” asked Rubin as she removed her own helmet.
“Counterclassical traveling songs,” said Ulique. “Used to remember hunting and migration routes back home.”
It sounded like metal rasps rubbing together, overlaid with low wind instruments and the hornlike sounds of untranslated Quetzalus speech. “This is not a common Quetzalus language, but I can attempt to translate if you’d like,” offered Doc. “I believe the refrain refers to a bumbling son who died in a tar pit.”
Doc paused. “And also died in a lava flow. And a mudslide. And some form of playground equipment. It’s possible my translation is off.”
“This way.” Ulique led them to the largest of five open passages leading deeper into the lung.
They entered another bronchial tube, which sloped steeply downward. The grav plates kept Mops’ inner ear from registering the change.
“If my specs are accurate, we’re passing over the bladder and water filtration plant access point,” said Doc.
Ten minutes later, they emerged into what appeared to be a small, colorful jungle. Thick yellow moss carpeted the floor. Vines as thick as her arm clung to the curved walls and ceiling. Clusters of bell-shaped orange blossoms grew alongside thorny, hard-shelled fruits. The too-sweet floral scent made her eyes water, and Mops surreptitiously turned up her PRA.
A nearby Quetzalus extended a quadfurcated tongue to grasp one of the swollen fruits. He twisted carefully, then froze, his glowing tongue still half-extended, when he spotted the humans.
“The commissary?” guessed Mops.
“There’s gathering space toward the back,” said Quil.
“We don’t have much here suitable for aliens,” Ulique said apologetically. “But humans don’t eat real food anyway, right?”
“Not usually.” Mops gestured for the others to remain still. “The Krakau found tube feeding to be easier and healthier for human sustenance.”
“Disgusting.” From the flat tone, she was fairly sure Ulique’s comment was meant as observation, not insult.
Doc translated the whispers he picked up as the Quetzalus warned one another about the arrival of humans. The one with his tongue out finally pulled the fruit free, took it carefully in his beak, and backed away.
“Most of our people have never seen a human in person,” Quil said, crest drooping. “They hear stories of your service as fierce soldiers for the Krakau Alliance.”
Mops forced a chuckle. “I think they’re more concerned with the stories about humans reverting to feral, shambling cannibals.”
“That, too, yes,” Ulique said awkwardly. “There is an entire genre of ‘monster human’ stories, popular among our youth. The worst are the games that allow you to play as a human, killing and consuming sentient beings.”
“Our navigator has several of those. They don’t play ’em much anymore.” Mops watched as the Quetzalus quietly cleared out. In another situation, she might have tried to ease their fears, but for this mission, the fewer witnesses, the better. They wouldn’t all leave, of course. There were always gawkers who enjoyed the alien equivalent of an adrenaline rush that came from getting close to such dangerous animals.
“This way.” Ulique led them down a well-trampled path toward a mossy clearing with a bubbling, steaming pond at the center. Smooth-topped rocks, about a meter in diameter, were scattered about like tables. Only a few Quetzalus remained, their enormous eyes fixed on the humans.
Mops barely noticed them. Her attention was locked on a table near the back and its lone occupant: a creature a meter in height, with broad blue-and-yellow wings draped like a cape from the middle of his back. Gleaming, colorful armor plates protected his torso and shoulder joints. Overlong fingers poked at a rectangular lump of brown nutritional supplement.
“Your passenger,” said Ulique, not bothering to conceal her relief. “How soon can you take him?”
Mops’ hand dropped to her combat baton. “Doc?”
“On it.” He pulled up their instructions from Admiral Pachelbel.
Mops reread every word. The admiral had b
een even less forthcoming than usual about this one. Nowhere had she made any mention that their contact was Prodryan.
Monroe and Rubin stepped into position on either side of her and waited for orders.
Technically, there was no law against a Prodryan being here. The Prodryan war against the Alliance was a disorganized thing, a thousand individual actions rather than a centralized campaign. The Prodryans had never officially declared war, in part because war was their default state. They’d wiped out dozens of colonies and killed hundreds of thousands, including many of Mops’ fellow humans.
“Captain Adamopoulos?” The Prodryan rose and brushed crumbs from his armor.
“Captain Jean-François Paillard,” Mops said firmly.
“Of course. Captain Paillard.” Prodryans were furious fighters but terrible liars. “My Human name is Advocate of Violence. I’m a certified legal advocate and part-time spy. I’m here to assist you and your crew. In return, you’ll help me end the Krakau Alliance.”
What to Do if You Encounter a Prodryan
A Guide for Humans, Prepared by EMC Sergeant A. Lovelace
In the words of a great Earth philosopher, Don’t Panic. Only a fraction of the Prodryan race are actively warring against the entire galaxy. True, the remaining Prodryans also want you dead, but most have other priorities than making it happen right this moment.
How old is the Prodryan? Younger individuals who haven’t yet earned armor and biological enhancements may try to start a fight in order to improve their reputation. Don’t let them bait you.
If you do let them bait you, make sure you win.
Prodryans cannot fly in normal gravity. But in low-gee environments, remember to look up.
You can try walking away from the Prodryan. They will probably take this as an insult and use it as an excuse to fight.
