Escape

by Blaze Ward

  He wanted to cross himself again, for thinking unethical thoughts, but now was not the time. They might think he was a sorcerer, or something, in spite of everyone standing on a starship talking.

  “How did you come to be standing on my deck, Human Lazarus?” the naga asked.

  It had been a day. Several days. A whole week.

  Getting Ajax ready for her trial run to test everything. The sudden fight to the death against an entire GunWall. Suicidal flight and survival. Aliens.

  His head came up a little and his jaw jutted. Just a little.

  “Somebody blew up my escape pod,” he said sourly. “My ship was already destroyed. I’m so far from home I’m not even sure that I can get back there in my lifetime. And then you came along.”

  The centipede thing started to move. Lazarus could see it in the way the antennae on his head tilted forward suddenly. The way the ten feet all seemed to flatten themselves against the deck, as if gripping for a charge. The hands shifted on the spear.

  Lazarus put all his focus into his right hand. He would step back, open the flap, draw the laser pistol, and go for the thing’s head. Blind it at least, and then use the airlock door to keep the others from rushing him.

  “Wybert,” the naga snapped angrily, turning his head to look at the creature and ignore the human for a moment.

  “Sorry,” the thing said in a voice so high Lazarus almost laughed.

  It settled its weight back and grounded the spear on a metal cap that looked like it contained some sort of machinery, from the lights Lazarus saw on the side of it. Good to know it wasn’t just a stick with an arrowhead on the end.

  “You claim to be a rebel against something called Westphalia, Human Lazarus,” the naga captain turned those two, vertically-slitted eyes his way again.

  Lazarus kept waiting for a forked tongue to flicker out.

  “That’s right,” Lazarus finally said, when he realized no tongue was coming after him. “They are a group of human supremacists that believe all aliens should be subjugated or destroyed. My nation, the Rio Alliance, has been fighting them for years. The non-humans we know taught us Interlac, this language. They said it was the language all spacers knew.”

  “What species have you met in this Rio Alliance, Lazarus?” the naga asked.

  At least the others were calming, if he read the body language correctly. The blue centipede was actually leaning some of his upright weight on the spear as a pole, rather than preparing to kebab one lonely human with it.

  “Moah,” he answered. “Gnashiiley. Atomarsk. Those three are the most common, but there are supposedly dozens of others. I have never, however, seen any of your species, I think.”

  “Atomarsk are a legend!” the spider with the black ruff and the beam rifle yelled angrily at him.

  Something about the face suggested female, and that made sense, since black widow spiders were always female in his nightmares.

  Carefully, Lazarus held out his left hand at shoulder height.

  “About yea tall?” he asked. “Maroon fur and a tail fan made up of seven feathers?”

  The woman spider gasped. The beam rifle fluttered just a little, making him wonder if she was about to shoot him.

  Hopefully, aliens around here understood safeties on guns. And used them.

  “Have you heard of the Innruld?” the naga, the captain if Lazarus had to guess, asked sternly.

  “I have not,” he replied. “Not until you asked me about them earlier. You say I look like them?”

  “No,” the naga shifted some on his…tail.

  His coiled tail that reminded Lazarus of a rattlesnake on a flat rock, preparing to bite. Even a green one that looked more like a garter snake that ate bugs and slugs in your garden if you were nice to them.

  “You are much shorter than the self-proclaimed Lords of the Galaxy,” the rattlesnake captain said. “As heavy, perhaps, though. And your hand has four fingers instead of three. But the similarities are close enough, as you are otherwise a biped of a standard model.”

  Lazarus wondered what a standard model implied, but it didn’t seem politic to ask at the current juncture.

  “And a lost sailor in need of rescue,” he said carefully, hoping that the ethics of spaceflight were the same everywhere. Or close enough. “I may not know your technology, but I am willing to learn, and work for my passage someplace.”

  The whole group bristled. Gun hands gripped a little tighter. Gun barrels wobbled around in response to the twitch in the arm holding it.

  “Do your kind take slaves, Human Lazarus?” the commander over there asked.

  “I’m fighting a war against those kinds of people, buddy,” he growled back sharply. “Is that what you think bipeds do?”

  “It’s what the Innruld do, Lazarus,” the naga said sternly. But then he smiled. “However, if you are willing to work, we might find a place for a rebel.”

  Lazarus didn’t really like the chuckle that emanated from the group, but he didn’t have much choice at this point.

  Chapter Six

  Addison

  Addison watched the human carefully as he spoke. The spacesuit covered much of his body language, making it difficult to read the alien’s reactions, but the face seemed extremely emotive through the open face plate.

  Wybert was relaxed, so it was likely that the human would survive this encounter, unlike his ship, which had exploded into millions of tiny, glowing fragments when Wybert got too excited.

  Pity. What would an alien starship have been worth in this sector of space?

  “So I am Lazarus,” the human stated, locking predator eyes on him. “By what name should I address you?”

  “I am Addison Wolcott,” he replied, letting the muscles of his mouth and eyes stretch into something approximating a biped’s smile. “Director of this vessel: Shiva Zephyr Glaive.”

  To see how good the human’s memory was, he decided to introduce the rest of the crew currently present.

  “Wybert of Capantzina,” with his powerspear for whatever close combat might occur on a starship. But you didn’t separate an Ilount from his spear without getting him drunk first.

  “Remahle Mebarsu is a Kr’mari,” as the flier half-bowed with an opera cloak for effect.

  “Aileen Enjehn is a Yithadreph,” Addison smiled. “Your first job might be mopping the deck dry for her, since I ordered her out of her bed for this.”

  The human nodded carefully, apparently studying Aileen closer than the others. That made sense, since she was the closest to him in terms of evolutionary trees. Erect, fur-bearing bipeds, and all that.

  “Khyaa'sha Ramarkhay is usually our cook,” Addison smiled at the woman and wondered what a human might eat that they would need to lay in, next time he picked up supplies.

  If Wybert hadn’t blown up the human’s ship, they might have been able to remove all of his food. Addison wondered if anything had survived the explosion that they might salvage now.

  “Ereshkiki Nisab and Thadrakho are in the engine room at the moment,” Addison added, letting the human know that there was more crew about. “And Kuei Akeley is on the bridge flying.”

  Addison tensed his whole body now, studying the way the human stood. Not completely at ease, but also not preparing to fight Wybert to the death either.

  “You appear to be armed, Lazarus,” Addison said carefully. “Wybert will put your weapons into the armory for now, and your suit will go into storage with the rest of ours. Do you have personal clothing you can wear?”

  Most bipeds wore their space suits instead of clothing, plugging various orifices into tubes in such a way that basic clothing got in the way.

  This would be where they determined if the human would serve, or die. Would he give up his weapons and submit himself to non-bipeds, or would Wybert have to distract the big human with the spear until the rest could engage?

  The human paused, eyes averted. A heavy breath escaped its mouth.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, it lifted a l
ong weapon on a strap from over his chest and leaned it against the side wall. The pistol’s holster was attached to a belt that buckled in the center.

  Weird. Doesn’t it get in the way when folding yourself in the middle?

  Still, Lazarus wrapped the belt around the weapon and held it out with one hand towards Wybert.

  “I have clothing, but it is stashed in a backpack and I can’t get to it until I unsuit,” the human mused.

  Addison had second thoughts and looked around.

  “Aileen? Would you?” he asked.

  She glanced at him then nodded in a compact jerk that said much about her nerves in approaching a monster, nearly a quarter taller than her and possibly twice her weight. But the alternative was Wybert right now.

  Addison didn’t feel like having to mop blood out of the airlock if the fool Ilount reacted badly to something accidental. And he might. Ilount were not deep thinkers.

  Addison didn’t have his pistol aimed directly at the human. Not yet. His reflexes could center it faster than Wybert could blink, if he needed to. Aileen would probably collapse to the deck if she panicked, so he should have a clear shot.

  Center of that torso would probably fail. It looked armored and Addison had no idea what humans might consider tough. But the faceplate was open. If nothing else, he could permanently blind the monster on the way to spacing him.

  Aileen sidled into the airlock and slid to her right. She only had a stub of a tail, but it was up against steel right now.

  Lazarus held the weapon out as far as his arms would reach without moving his feet and let her snag it and quickly retreat out of the airlock.

  “I am unarmed,” Lazarus said, carefully enunciating his words so they were clear, in spite of the guttural accent he had. “I am about to open my suit. It will make strange noises and panels will open apparently at random. This is necessary. Is it safe to exit the airlock and do this where you are standing?”

  That last, focused not on Wybert, like most people would be, but on Addison, the Director holding Wybert’s metaphorical leash tight right now.

  “It is,” Addison decided. “Come.”

  He slithered backwards, away from the hatch and deeper into the Main Deck Primary Cargo Hold. Aileen and Remahle joined him quickly. Khyaa'sha went up the outside of the ramp to the balcony overlooking the hold. If the human moved to here, she could drop on him in a heartbeat.

  “Wybert,” Addison barked at the Ilount, gesturing for him to back up.

  Ilount could walk backwards. It took a lot of coordination and attention, things Wybert did not excel at, so he looked like a drunk Kreeghal when he did so.

  At least he moved.

  Lazarus exited the airlock and entered Shiva Zephyr Glaive proper. He looked around him with an eye that told Addison the human was used to starships, and perhaps knew quite a bit, from the spaces his gaze lingered.

  Still, Lazarus did not move suddenly or dangerously, perhaps understanding that the Rules of Hospitality only stretched so far.

  “Stand by,” the human said simply.

  Chapter Seven

  Lazarus

  Truly, an alien starship, somewhere more than one thousand light-years from Earth. Crewed by aliens of a variety of types Lazarus had never even dreamed about, let alone encountered. Naga. Decapeed. Glider. Swimmer. Spider.

  What other insanity awaited?

  Still, he was the guest here. Lazarus made eye contact with Director Wolcott and nodded politely, hoping the body language was universal. The naga nodded back.

  Lazarus reached up and keyed the sequence of external switches that would unlock his helmet. A twist and it popped loose, hanging just from the lanyard at the back. He detached it from the bolt and set the helmet off to one side. An emergency suit was designed for quick entrance but short duration, so he had chosen the armored lifesuit.

  Might have saved his life, considering the explosion that killed the koch.

  Next, the six latches along each side of his ribcage that always reminded him of the lorica breastplate of the ancient Roman Legions. He keyed the upper arm release and his arm coverings split just above the elbow, with the top half retracting into the shoulder joint. Front and back plates detached at the waist as well, and he lifted it over his head. It went next to the helmet.

  Lazarus looked around and found a bench. He could do this next part standing in a pinch, or sitting on the floor, but he’d slept in the suit, and his muscles were stiff.

  He wondered if the aliens had a tub big enough that he could just soak in hot water. The dire otter, Aileen, probably had something, but that might be her personal bed. And she was still as tiny as an eight-year-old human girl.

  He sat and began keying secondary functions. His forearm coverings retracted into bracers attached to his gauntlets. Thigh rings slid down, over his knees, and into his boots. He sighed as he pulled each boot off and wiggled his toes. Gauntlets next, and all he had on was the abdomen base with the plumbing controls.

  Lazarus took a deep breath and triggered the release, grunting and flinching as everything detached and retracted. At least it was less uncomfortable than attaching everything.

  He stood and slid the last piece to the floor, standing stark naked in front of a bunch of aliens.

  The backpack on his armor had a pouch for clothes, folded tight and vac-sealed up in a tiny bag. He pulled it out and tore the seal.

  Shirt, jacket, pants, socks, underwear. The shoes would inflate over the course of an hour and then the soles would harden overnight and he could wear them in any environments that the jacket was sufficient for.

  If it got that cold, you were supposed to stay in the suit with the heater on anyway, for as long as the batteries and fuel would hold out.

  The aliens hadn’t moved. It was like watching a bunch of statues in a garden, except these blinked occasionally as he got dressed.

  Whoever had packed this emergency kit for him had been into reds. Crimson-colored pants. Jacket matching the pants, with gold piping and a logo for a beer company embroidered in gold thread on the left breast. Off-white shirt not much different than Aileen’s pants, with the same logo printed this time on it.

  Seriously? A brewery?

  But then he supposed that such a company might have paid to have their logo go everywhere as part of an emergency kit. Cheap advertising.

  Lazarus made a note to go find them, one of these days, and see if their beer was any good. Plus, anyone recognizing the logo would have had to come from closer to home, so they might be able to help.

  He reminded himself that he only really needed six or eight months for Ajax to be good enough to make it home. He could fly her by himself, but combat would require a full crew.

  Did he dare recruit any of these aliens to come help the Rio Alliance?

  He was dead, after all.

  Lazarus chuckled to himself as he stuffed his new shoes into the thigh pouches on his pants and began to gather up his lifesuit.

  “What tickles your fancy, Lazarus?” Aileen asked timidly.

  He stood and faced her, pointing to the logo on his chest.

  “I’m wearing emergency clothing designed for people going into an escape pod,” he smiled, tapping his chest. “This is a brewery on Brasilia, my homeworld. They make beer, and probably paid someone to put this here. I am now a walking billboard.”

  “Beer?” she asked, her brows growing together in apparent confusion.

  “Several kinds of grains fermenting in water to an alcohol level around six or nine percent,” he replied, remembering soberly how far from home he was.

  Interlac didn’t have such a word, so he had automatically used the Spanglish term that had originally traveled to Brasilia with the colonists, itself an offshoot relative of the Anglo-German of Westphalia. Cerveza.

  “You drink poison?” her brown eyes got huge. They were quite expressive, when he studied her face. And her whiskers had all leaned forward, as if tasting for danger.

  “In low dose
s, it is an intoxicant to my kind,” he said. “At least methyl alcohols. Ethyl alcohol is indeed poisonous.”

  From the reactions over there, folks around here must not drink hooch of any kind. He wondered what they did to relax. Everybody ingested something. Or smoked it. Or chewed it.

  Right?

  “What do I do with all this?” he gestured, holding the various pieces of his suit in his arms.

  The decapeed, Wybert, stepped around him and Aileen, making a beeline for the bolter rifle. It should be safe, as Lazarus hadn’t put a bolt in the chamber. Hopefully the creature was smart enough not to just randomly do things to the weapon.

  Depending on where he pointed it, Lazarus could see a shot penetrating the outside hull from here.

  “Come with me,” Wybert said, holding his spear, the pistol, and the rifle in his four hands and rippling in the direction Lazarus interpreted as forward.

  Nearby was apparently an armory. Guns have a specific look to them, and physics is physics. Lazarus figured he could use at least half of these in a pinch.

  “What do I need to do with the pistol to make it safe?” Wybert asked as he opened the doorway.

  Lazarus considered offering to show him, but that might make people nervous right now.

  “Remove it from the holster and hold the handle with your fingers around the large part that sticks out at the bottom,” Lazarus said, watching carefully and prepared to leap to the side if the barrel came around this way.

  Wybert drew the pistol. His hands were close enough to human that it was a pretty good fit.

  “That is the trigger,” Lazarus pointed. “The safety is the red switch above your thumb. Down would be armed. Up is safe.”

  It was safe, for the moment.

  “On the other side, there is a button if you pull your trigger finger back, above the trigger,” Lazarus continued, waiting for the Ilount to turn the weapon over and see it. “Press that and the powercell will unlock and slide out of the hand grip.”

  Wybert followed Lazarus’ instructions. His whole body rippled with surprise as the cartridge moved out a bit and then hung on the rails.