Trek It!

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  As he told the story, Mariko noticed that the camp around them had become conspicuously quiet. Earlier, it had been alive with the sounds of activity and Vox chatter; now, it seemed that everyone was hanging on Nalo's every word.

  "Part of us, in here," said Nalo, tapping his skull, "They ate it. For fertility.

  "It looks like the flower. The mazeesh. So they called us mazeesh."

  There it was: the link between a word meaning "beauty" and a slur strong enough to spur a crowd to murderous rage…but Mariko still didn't understand why Nalo had used it out in the open, on a city street, with an unsuspecting visitor, when he obviously knew better.

  "'Mazeesh,'" said Nalo. "It means 'prey.' It means 'food.' It means 'filth'…'property'…'lowest of the low.' It is the most hated word in the world.

  "But that is about to change," said Nalo. "Thanks to you."

  Mariko frowned.

  Despite their differences in appearance, Nalo seemed to understand her facial expressions, at least a little. "Don't worry," he said. "The hard part's over."

  Her frown deepened. As weak as she felt, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows.

  "You broke the silence," said Nalo. "You are a symbol of free speech.

  "We chose you well."

  Mariko shook her head a little. She could not believe what she had heard…but every time she reviewed the translation in her mind, it came up the same.

  We chose you well.

  At that moment, she thought she would give anything to be able to talk again.

  Suddenly, the day's events made perfect sense. Perfect, terrible sense.

  All along, she had wondered how both she and the multiterpreter device could have made such an egregious mistake…how they could have mistranslated an outrageous slur as a word meaning "beauty." She had wondered why Nalo had used the word to begin with, if the penalty for speaking it aloud was so steep.

  Now, it all fit into place.

  In a way, it made her feel better. She had been beating herself up for making a mistake, had thought briefly that she deserved to be punished for failing so miserably…and all along, it had not been her fault.

  She felt better…and angrier, too. Exhaustion and self-recrimination were replaced by rage burning coldly in her heart.

  It all made perfect sense.

  "You used the word just as we hoped," said Nalo, "when I gave it to you."

  Finally, she understood. She had been used.

  She had been set up.

  *****

  Chapter Eight

  Martin Simon had a gut feeling.

  Seated in the command chair on the Exogenesis bridge, he rubbed his chin and stared at the viewer. The planet Vox turned there, white clouds drifting over red oceans and the pale pink and yellow landmasses.

  "Try again," he said to the communications officer, Ensign Neruda.

  The answer from Communications was the same as before. "Nothing."

  Technically, he knew he shouldn't worry yet. It had only been a few hours since their last contact with the landing party, and he knew that their task could have been time consuming. It might not have been so easy convincing the local authorities that a massive alien fleet was headed their way, armed to the teeth. It would not have been welcome news, or even believable, depending on how much contact the natives had had in the past with species from other worlds.

  So it hadn't really been all that long since the landing party's last communication.

  But the fleet was getting closer every minute. And there was that gut feeling.

  "Scan the planet's surface for human and Hephaestan bio signs," he said.

  As Ensign Levy, the acting science officer, worked the controls at J'Tull's station, Simon turned to Bellweather at the helm. "How long till the fleet gets here?"

  Tanner checked a readout. "Just over eight hours," he said, "if they maintain current course and speed."

  "Any reason to expect otherwise?" said Simon.

  "None that I can see," said Bellweather. "Unless a freak ion storm pops up out of nowhere, they've got clear sailing all the way here."

  "Let's hope for a freak ion storm," said Simon, and then he turned toward the science station. Levy was taking too long with the bio signs.

  Realizing that he was being observed, Levy looked up from the displays. "I'm having a problem, sir," he said.

  That simple statement confirmed to Simon that his gut feeling had been on the mark. "What's the problem?" he said.

  "The buildings have abnormally strong electrostatic fields," said Levy. "They're interfering with sensor scans."

  Martin hopped out of the command chair and joined Levy at the science station. "What's getting through?"

  "Two sets of human bio signs, in close proximity," said Levy, reading from the gooseneck viewer on the console. "One set of Hephaestan bio signs, within a kilometer of the others." Levy looked away from the viewer to adjust some controls, then looked back. "They're alive, but that's all I can tell you. I can't even pinpoint their locations with any degree of accuracy."

  Two sets of human bio signs. Not three.

  "Could the interference be masking a third set of human bio signs?" said Simon.

  "Yes," said Levy. "As it is, I'm getting multiple false reads and sensor ghosts."

  "Doesn't sound promising for a teleporter lock," said Simon.

  "No sir," said Levy. "A lock is not possible at this time."

  The gut feeling was turning into a sick feeling. "All right then," said Simon, marching back to the command chair. "Hail the planet's surface. Broadcast a general greeting on all frequencies."

  "Aye sir," said Ensign Neruda.

  Simon's mind raced as he dropped back into the command chair. Though sensor scans could lie, and the electrostatic interference made current scans particularly unreliable, he was certain that the away team's situation was dire.

  The group had been separated…and only two sets of human bio signs were showing up instead of three. The third human member of the team was either hidden in an area with sensor-resistant shielding…or dead.

  Simon wondered which one of his friends possessed the missing bio signs.

  "Sir?" When Ensign Neruda spoke up, Simon swiveled to face her. "We're getting multiple responses to hails."

  "Pick the strongest signal," said Simon. "Put it through the multiterpreter and pipe it onto the bridge."

  Frowning in concentration, Neruda listened to the output from her earpiece and operated controls on the communications consoles. "Having trouble with the multiterpreter, sir. It's spitting out gibberish."

  "Maybe it's scrambled," said Simon. "Go to the next strongest signal."

  Neruda worked for a few moments, then looked up and shook her head. "The multiterpreter doesn't like this one either, sir."

  "Go to the weakest coherent signal," said Simon. If the first two were scrambled military transmissions, he reasoned, this one might be more likely to come from a small civilian station or rig.

  Again, Neruda worked at the console and looked frustrated. "Same thing."

  "Let me hear it," said Martin.

  Neruda touched controls, and a stream of chatter, clicks and buzzes poured from the bridge speakers. Simon listened intently, staring at the red-yellow orb on the viewer as if hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was on the other end of the transmission.

  He could not even begin to sort out the complex flurry of babble and noises, but he did get a strong impression while listening: that the words and sounds were language, not random gibberish or unfathomable code.

  He signaled Neruda by drawing a finger across his throat, and she cut off the bridge speakers. "Keep working on it," he told her. "Work off-line if the multiterpreter won't cooperate. Meanwhile, keep signaling the away team."

  "Aye sir," said Neruda.

  For a moment, Simon contemplated the image of the planet on the screen and considered his options. He no longer had any doubt that a crisis situation existed for the away team on the surface.
The only question now was how long he was willing to wait to take action.

  One member of the team was undetectable by sensors and possibly dead. The rest of the team was split up and inaccessible by teleporter.

  If he acted too hastily, he might escalate the situation…but if he waited, how long would it be before another set of bio signs disappeared from sensor scans?

  And then there was the alien fleet. If he waited too long, he might not have the time he needed to extract the away team and get Exogenesis away before the fleet's arrival. He had an entire ship and crew to consider, and he doubted they would fare well if they were still in orbit when the fleet reached Vox.

  So how long was he willing to wait?

  "Ensign Levy," said Simon, turning toward the science station. "Continue to track the human and Hephaestan bio signs. Notify me immediately of any change in their status or position…and I want to know the second a teleporter lock becomes available."

  "Yes, sir," said Levy.

  "I also want you to develop schematics of the layout of the buildings around them. Work around the electrostatic interference as best you can. Draw other personnel to assist as needed."

  "Aye," said Levy.

  "And find that third set of human bio signs," said Simon.

  He activated the comm panel on the arm of the command chair and opened a channel to his own department. "Security," said a voice from the armrest speaker – Ensign Lopresti, holding down the fort while Simon was on the bridge.

  "Put a podcraft on standby," said Simon. "Prep a four-person extraction team to go with it, armed to the teeth. Each team member gets two of everything from the armory."

  "Aye, sir," said Lopresti.

  Simon switched the intercom to the ship-wide channel. "Attention," he said. "We are now at full alert. All personnel report to stations. Weapons drills commence immediately."

  Flicking off the armrest comm, he headed for the tactical station. "Tanner," he said as he passed the helm. "I'd like fifteen minute updates on the time until fleet intercept, beginning now."

  "Eight hours and counting," said Bellweather.

  Martin's hands moved over the tactical console as he initiated the standard sequence of weapons drills. For the moment, he thought, it was the smart thing to do…enhancing the crew's readiness prior to what could develop into a battle situation.

  Besides which, it would keep him busy, at least for a little while. It would take his mind off the missing human bio sign…at least a little.

  And it was better than sitting in the command chair, second-guessing his decision to delay action…a decision that could cost the lives of the surviving members of the away team.

  As the drills got underway, he observed the monitors on his console, noting crew reaction times, equipment response times, simulated targeting accuracy…looking for any sign of slack or weakness or breakdown.

  But even as he concentrated on his work, the clock in his head ticked away the minutes, one by one. With every minute that came and went, he wondered if the next should be the one when he ordered the podcraft launch…or if the next minute would be the one when Ensign Levy announced that he'd found the missing bio sign and attained a teleporter lock.

  Or if the next minute would be the one when all four away team bio signs winked out forever.

  "Seven hours, forty-five minutes until fleet intercept," announced Tanner Bellweather.

  Martin's gut was twisted up in knots. He finished one drill and went right into another.

  How long was he willing to wait?

  *****

  Chapter Nine

  For Swift and Zeke, learning the Vox language was torture.

  More accurately, it was a prelude to torture. Until the humans understood Vox, at least a little, their interrogators could not pry information out of them. That much of what was going on, Swift thought he had figured out.

  Now if he could just figure out what the latest image on the instructional display was supposed to represent, he would be happy.

  "Vrawla chio," repeated the bronze-furred Vox who was doing most of the tutoring…and who, presumably, would do his part in torturing the humans when the lessons were done.

  Not that the lessons themselves weren't torture.

  Some of the images that had appeared on the display were obvious: a cloud ("inklitah" in Vox); a tree ("oorishilo"); a rock ("machop"); two Vox eating ("Omimoxsu Voxlo"). Then there were the rest of them…a parade of unidentifiable forms and surreal scenes that left Swift and Zeke shrugging at each other in puzzlement.

  The latest image was one of those. Swift thought it looked like a squat, legless mammal with flowers for eyes, resting in a pool of red water…either that or a fur-covered boat.

  But he had a feeling it was none of the above.

  "Vrawla chio," said the Vox instructor, poking a clawed finger at the display screen.

  Swift shrugged at Zeke. "Vrawla chio," they said robotically, and the image on the display changed. This time, Swift saw a sleeping Vox curled up on what looked like a bed of raw red meat.

  "Avi'alazash Voxlo," said the bronze-furred instructor.

  Swift sighed. At the rate they were going, he and Zeke might master the rudiments of the Vox language in fifteen years…and they didn't have even fifteen hours before the biggest fleet of warships he'd ever seen sailed into the skies over Vox.

  As far as Swift was concerned, they didn't even have fifteen minutes to waste so long as half his away team was unaccounted for.

  Looking away from the screen, he scanned his surroundings, peering through the transparent walls of the cells and corridors…but there was still no sign of Mariko or J'Tull. He looked at the gallery window but saw only the crowd of Vox onlookers, squawking and hopping and waving to get his attention. Nothing but fur and teeth out there.

  When the interrogators had first arrived, Swift had tried to ask them about his missing crewmen, to no avail. Determined to carry out their assignment, the two

  no-nonsense Vox had been deaf to any words out of the humans' mouths other than the appropriate responses to the images displayed on the screen.

  And so, as he and Zeke uncomprehendingly recited the Vox words, prodded by the instructor and gawked at by the gallery, Swift still had no idea whether Mariko and J'Tull were dead or alive.

  "Avi'alazash Voxlo," said the bronze-furred instructor.

  It was time, Swift decided, to take action.

  Zeke, he knew, was waiting for a signal to move. When the interrogators had entered the cell, he and Swift had quickly sized them up and agreed in a few hurried whispers on a plan of attack.

  The men had no doubt that they could overpower the creatures. Though they had been beaten by the crowd of Vox in the tower, the numbers were even in the cell: two Vox, two humans. Plus, Swift and Zeke had a strength advantage, thanks to muscles trained in a higher-gravity environment than that of Vox.

  The burning question was, what were they going to do after subduing the two Vox? That was what had held Swift back until now…and after careful consideration, he still had no satisfying answer.

  The corridor outside the cell was lined with guards – one on either side of the entry panel, at least ten stationed or patrolling within Swift's eyeshot at the moment. Not only that, but the cell's exit point was invisible, melted seamlessly into the surrounding polymer of the wall; Swift had no idea how to find it, let alone open it.

  As for secrecy, forget it. In the see-through building, the humans' every move was monitored by Vox alongside, outside, and above the fishbowl cell. The alarm would be sounded, no doubt, the very instant Swift and Zeke tried anything.

  When it came to tight spots, this was one of Swift's top five. He was going to try to get out of it, anyway.

  There was always the chance that he could get by on luck…and he thought good luck was overdue after the day he'd been having. He had found that luck, improvisation, and blissful ignorance were three of the most effective weapons in a star cruiser captain's arsenal.
>
  A fresh image flashed on the display screen. "Sensu u'ela," said the bronze-furred Vox, tapping it with his finger.

  "Sensu u'ela," said Swift. The thing on the screen looked like a bed sheet with pale blue feathers and six spindly legs.

  As the image changed again, he looked over at Zeke and nodded.

  "Onam azeesh cho Voxlo," said the bronze-furred Vox.

  Swift got out two syllables before he caught himself. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut and shot a hand onto Zeke's arm to stop him, too.

  The Vox had almost suckered them.

  Finally, Swift understood what the instructors had been up to all along. They weren't trying to teach the humans how to speak the Vox language. They had never intended to communicate with them or interrogate them.

  They were trying to trick them.

  Whatever the Vox had been leading them to say, it probably had no relation to the images on the display screen. Swift guessed that the tutorial had been a ruse to get he and Zeke to repeat selected words…a confession, probably, which was being recorded to use against them.

  And if Swift hadn't caught on, it would have had a killer finale.

  Two words pronounced close together – Onam azeesh – could sound an awful lot like one word that Swift knew the Vox had strong feelings about.

  Onam azeesh.

  Onamazeesh.

  Mazeesh.

  Swift had been two syllables away from saying what he was pretty sure would have locked in his death sentence.

  It was the last straw.

  "Onam azeesh cho Voxlo," the bronze-furred Vox repeated insistently, but the humans remained silent. Turning to his partner, the Vox chattered and gestured…talking about how the tutorial con wasn't working out, Swift guessed.

  This was where the evil-looking instruments on the gurneys would come in, he figured. The Vox certainly hadn't brought them into the cell for aesthetic reasons.

  Time to move.

  Swift signaled Zeke by squeezing his arm, but he didn't need to. Zeke was already half off the bench, in perfect synch with his old friend's intentions.