Under Nameless Stars

by Christian Schoon

  “I can expand its radius of protection for a short period. It should cover an area large enough to contain us all. In tandem with the Novice’s medicine, we should have time enough to transit the Prodigious and reach the ship beyond. With luck.”

  “Luck?” Liam said, standing up. “Right…”

  While Treth tinkered with the scrim, Zenn took the tube of Acadarine paste from her pack and attempted to quickly work out the lowered dosages required to avoid poisoning them all. After mixing it with a measure of powdered blood conditioner, she parceled out the individual doses for each of them.

  “Put out your hand, Liam,” she said. He obeyed and, using the tip of a scalpel, she placed a tiny amount of the mixture in his palm. “Now lick it off.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “OK, but if I croak, I’m suing for malpractice.”

  He licked his palm.

  “Gaaah!” His face contorted as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Damn. You coulda warned me.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I’ve never tasted it,” she told him.

  “Great. Tucker the lab rat, at your service.”

  “Somebody had to go first,” she said, then she went around to measure out the drug to each of the others in turn.

  Minutes later, Zenn could feel the effect of the antipyretic taking hold, as first her finger tips, then her arms, then her entire body beginning to feel chilled. Shivering slightly, she watched as Charlie twisted together a final pair of wires inside an open wall panel next to the airlock.

  “Those Spex, they’re in a bad way now,” he said, examining his handiwork. “But they could still be looking at ship’s systems. When they do, what’ll they see? No open airlock here! Just a little data misfire.”

  “And if they don’t see it that way?” Liam wondered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Treth said. “We cannot go back.”

  “How long will this groom-scrim protect us? From all that heat?” Jules asked, his mech-legs fidgeting beneath him.

  “The power cell should have sufficient charge for ten to twelve minutes,” Treth said, buckling the belt around her waist and stepping over to the airlock. Jules bobbed his head in agitation, prompting Treth to add, “Ample time, dolphin.”

  “But all that heat! Zenn Scarlett, are you certain I will be capable?”

  Zenn wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t say that.

  “You’re starting to feel the cold, right?” He nodded. “That’s a good sign. You can do this, Jules.”

  “You are most positive? I am not.”

  “I’ll bet you,” she said. “Five units says you can.”

  “Oh?” His voiced quivered. “Five units?” Then, his voice a little stronger, “Let us say ten units. As between friends.”

  “Yes. Let’s say ten.” She threw her arms across his body to hug him, then stood back, giving him the most encouraging smile she could manage.

  “So, Jules, you’re a betting man, huh?” Liam said.

  “A betting cetacean,” Jules corrected him. “But this is the one wager I am hoping to lose. One must appreciate the ironic humor. Betting against one’s own self.”

  “Well, I bet you’ll do fine,” Liam said. He patted Jules’s flank.

  Zenn tried to give Katie her small dose, but the rikkaset took one sniff of the mixture and refused to eat it. Zenn wiped the paste on her paw; Katie licked and spat.

  “Bad, bad,” she signed at Zenn, blinking her eyes. “Not good to eat.”

  “Sorry,” Zenn told her. “But Katie needs it.” Then she took a length of bandaging from her pack and started to wrap it around the rikkaset.

  “Katie must stay in this cloth until I say to come out. Understand?” she signed and spoke the words.

  “Katie understand,” the little creature signed back. “Big trip? Katie going big trip?”

  “No, little trip. Done soon. Katie stay.” Then Zenn pulled the bandaging over the animal’s head and tucked the balled-up cloth down securely into the pack before refastening the flap and slipping her arms into the straps.

  At the bulkhead, Charlie pushed a key on the control panel and, with the groan of long-dormant gears, the huge airlock door slowly withdrew into the ceiling. They all looked at Treth.

  “Gather around me,” she told them. “The scrim’s effective area will cover a space approximately ten feet by five. Do not step beyond that boundary.”

  “How do we know where the boundary is?” Liam asked as they all crowded into the airlock and huddled around the Groom.

  “You’ll know,” Treth said, and she activated the scrim. A veil of faint blue-violet light shimmered to life, hugging the Groom’s body. She dialed a small control wheel on the belt, and the light detached itself from her, lifting into the air and expanding until it formed a translucent dome just large enough for all of them to crouch beneath.

  “When I open the second door, we will move as one. The exit airlock is directly opposite on this same deck.”

  They looked on intently as Charlie activated the lock control. The door behind them closed again, and the second door in front cracked open and slid up; a line of dull orange light appeared and spilled into the lock. The line of light grew wider and brighter as the door groaned upward; wisps of smoggy mist drifted in to swirl around the edge of the scrim’s protective field. A sharp scent like scorched metal and burning oil rose up to fill Zenn’s nostrils.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The ruddy light pouring in through the rising airlock door crept above Zenn’s knees, and the heat climbed with it, hot, then hotter. By the time, the door was up high enough for them to move into the Prodigious, the temperature had soared. Zenn’s shivering quickly ceased. Even with the scrim’s protection, the air burned Zenn’s cheeks and forehead, making her feel as if her skin was cooking. The scrim’s shape was visibly deformed as they entered the heavy atmosphere of the ship, and they had to duck even lower to remain beneath the top of the shimmering bubble.

  “Like I said,” Charlie said, scurrying along behind Treth, “five-suns hot.”

  “Stay together. Jules, keep up,” Treth called out as they moved ahead. Jules made a high-pitched squeaking noise and tried to move faster. But he was forced to stoop over awkwardly to remain below the scrim, and he bumped into Zenn, almost pushing her out of the scrim’s field.

  “Sorry. Most sorry,” he squawked. “I’m so clumsy…”

  “Jules, don’t worry. I’ll lean over so you can see where you’re going.” The act of speaking drew a draught of searing air into Zenn’s throat. Breathing through her nose helped, but only a little. Sweat ran down her forehead in rivulets, stinging her eyes. Then she realized the scrim bubble was slowly filling with steam – it was the water from the misters on Jules’s walksuit, vaporizing into a hot, wet fog.

  As they settled into an erratic, fast-walking rhythm, Zenn squinted to see ahead in the orange-brown gloom. The deck they were on had a high, curved ceiling of heavy, red-bronze-colored plating, giving her the feeling of moving through a gigantic artery. Huge pipelines and runs of tubing twisted along the walls before disappearing into irregularly spaced holes. A low-frequency pulsating sound pounded at them from somewhere, like a distant heartbeat at first, but growing steadily louder as they went deeper into the ship.

  They rounded a corner, and something moved in the heat-shimmered murk ahead of them. The shape dodged into a dark recess behind a small forest of piping. The thing was flat, glossy black, eight or ten feet long. Zenn thought she’d glimpsed pincers.

  “Did you see that?” Liam said, moving close behind Zenn. “What was it?”

  “Fire-mite,” Charlie said.

  “Dangerous?” Liam asked.

  “They hunt… in packs,” Charlie said, spacing out his words to keep from burning his throat. “If this one… is alone… won’t… bother us.”

  “What do they… hunt?” Liam wondered, wiping his sweat-soaked hair from his face. Zenn knew but didn’t want to inhale the hot air it would take to tell hi
m: native predators of the Vhulk homeworld of Dante Nine, fire-mites ate only live or recently killed prey. Zenn also wanted to say there shouldn’t be fire-mites running loose in a passenger ship.

  “We must not… waste breath,” Treth barked. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the thunderous din coming at them in ever-stronger waves. “We will pass through… an engineering bay ahead. Then bear to the right.”

  The cavernous room they entered next was at least five hundred feet long. No ceiling was visible in the burning smog above them. Through the swirling haze, Zenn could now see the outlines of three large, squat forms in the distance, laboring before a bank of huge structures that took up the entire center of the space. As they hurried to cross the vast room, more details emerged. The three forms gradually resolved into identifiable creatures: Dantean Vhulks, their heavily muscled, silica-plated bodies well equipped to survive the heat and pressure of their nightless triple-star home planet.

  Looking something like giant, prehistoric ground sloths, the Vhulks squatted before four plasma-fusion furnaces big as buildings, their huge, armored arms working at massive lever-type controls mounted in front of them. One of the furnaces was unattended; it bore the marks of an explosion, its metal walls ripped outward, leaving a ragged, still-smoldering hole.

  In unison, the three Vhulks swiveled their heads, gazing at Zenn and the others with baleful, slightly bioluminescent eyespots set deep into their blunt-nosed faces.

  “Are they… friendly?” Liam asked.

  “Their concern… is the plasma boilers that heat the ship,” Treth said over the noise from the blazing furnaces. “They should have… no quarrel with us.” As they drew closer, the Vhulks lumbered away from their stations, and went as a group to stand looking at something hidden behind the damaged furnace. One of the creatures motioned at them to approach.

  Zenn saw then that the three Vhulks had gathered around another of their kind. It lay on the floor, its upper body leaning against a bulkhead wall, eyespots dimmed, body still, except for labored breathing. The Vhulk’s massive right arm was badly mangled and burned, the thick armor-like epidermal layer of skin charred black. A viscous gray fluid oozed freely from the wound’s carbonized surface.

  Zenn put a hand on Treth’s shoulder. “It’s hurt,” she shouted, trying to ignore the pain from the scalding air. “The arm is burned… it looks bad.”

  The largest of the three Vhulks reached down to gently lift the arm of his wounded comrade, as if to display its injury.

  “It’s asking… for our help,” Zenn said. “It will die… unless we do something.”

  “Five-suns hot,” Charlie croaked. “No time.”

  “Treth, it will only… take a minute. Long enough… to seal the wound.”

  “Zenn Scarlett,” Jules said, his overheated Transvox circuitry hissing with static. “It is too hot in temperature. Can you truly succeed in this?”

  She didn’t know. But she had to try. “Treth,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  One of the other Vhulks raised its arms up towards them, in what to Zenn was an obvious gesture of desperation. This was too much even for Treth. The Groom held up her hand and brought them to a halt.

  “Quickly, then. This way. Stay together.”

  Treth maneuvered them next to the fallen Vhulk until the creature’s upper torso and damaged arm were brought within the edge of the scrim field. Its body radiated heat into their protective bubble, raising more steam, making it even harder to breathe. Zenn slipped off her backpack. Katie poked her nose out of her cloth wrapping, then withdrew again with a short, sharp squeak.

  Sweat now pouring from her face, Zenn wiped at her eyes and bent over the appendage of the unconscious Vhulk. A foot-long section of skin had third-degree burns oozing fluid. This was worse than she’d thought. Maybe Jules was right. Maybe this was beyond her abilities. Panic wrapped around her thoughts like a constricting serpent, pulling tight, tighter. No! She pushed back against the fear.

  It’s not about me! Not about my fear! She silently repeated the mantra Otha had drilled into her during classes. It’s about this patient! It’s about what I can do for this patient, here, now!

  It worked. The words and the memory of Otha, the image of him standing over her, guiding her, stilled her tumbling thoughts.

  Yes. She did know what to do! She’d trained for similar wounds. Not exactly the same, but close enough. She conjured up the details of Otha’s lecture on extremophile skin structure. A small oasis of calm bloomed and spread within her. She could do it. She would help this patient. She could only hope the artificial gelled skin she had would set up quickly enough to resist the heat and pressure outside the scrim.

  Working as fast as she dared, she cut along the bleeding edge of the wound with the caut-shears, sealing the wound as she went, removing a large swath of dead skin and muscle, which she dropped onto the floor.

  “That it?” Liam gasped. “You saved it. Good work. Can we… go now?”

  “No. Just a little… longer.”

  The raw slash of subdermal tissue she’d exposed quickly filled with gray-green blood. Using dissolvable hema-clips, she pinched off the few bleeding vessels she’d missed with the caut-shears, blotted up the excess blood with several absorbent pads and took up the canister of dermoplast. Making certain the artificial skin was adhering to the edges of the wound, she sprayed the substance back and forth until the entire damaged area was covered.

  Jules wavered on his mech-legs.

  “Not breathing… well…” he said. “Breathing… badly.”

  “Almost… finished,” She grabbed the largest gage pneuma-ject in her kit, shoved a vial of broad-spectrum anti-viral and stimulant into its barrel and injected the solution into the intact portion of the Vhulk’s arm.

  “We must go. Now,” Treth said.

  “Done.” Zenn stood back from the Vhulk, slipped her pack on.

  As they started to move, Zenn tapped the dermoplast patch with her knuckle. The patch felt hard and firm. It might just hold.

  After they’d gone a short distance, she looked back to see one of the creatures helping the wounded one to sit up. It was coming to, the stimulant taking effect. The Vhulk lifted its arm to its face, examined it, turning it this way and that. The arm flexed normally, the seal unbroken. The plast seemed to be holding. Then all was lost in the thick haze as they hurried on.

  Before they had traveled a hundred feet, Treth called out, pointing ahead. “There. Our way out.”

  Zenn could see nothing but superheated smog. But as the hallway leading to the airlock appeared in the wall ahead, she heard a bubbling, gasping sound from behind her.

  “I’m sorry… but my… breathing,” Jules wheezed. He was slowing down, having trouble walking. She could hear Liam also breathing hard and glanced back to see that he was supporting Jules under one of his mech-arms. Treth noticed too and had no choice but to slow down. Underneath the static of the Transvox, Jules’s already high-pitched dolphinese now rose into an even higher register. “My breath… not… adequate.” Zenn was startled to see a thin film of mucus bubbling up at the blowhole on top of his head. His tail flukes seemed to be spasming in short, jerky muscular contractions.

  “It’s the heat,” Zenn said, “…his bronchial linings… going edemic.” If the air burned her own lungs as she spoke, Zenn could only imagine what it was doing to the dolphin’s delicate membranes.

  “What is it… that ails him?” Treth said.

  “His airways… swelling shut… excess fluid.”

  “He must… keep going,” Treth said.

  “It isn’t much farther… Jules, you have to–” Zenn stopped speaking. In front, Treth had raised her arm to stop them again. Out of the seething mist, blocking the way forward, Zenn saw a low black shape scuttling from shadow to shadow. A piercing, inhuman scream knifed through the air. It was answered by another scream somewhere in the smoking mists.

  Another shape appeared – but made no move to hide. Then there we
re three, then six of them. Flattened ten-foot bodies slung low to the ground, serrated pincers held at the ready, the fire-mites raised and lowered themselves on a tangle of slithering legs, their six spider-like predator’s eyes following every move of the prey before them.

  “Are they…?” Liam sputtered.

  “A hunting pack,” Charlie cried. “Mites hunt in packs.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Everyone… stay still,” Treth said as she drew Pokt’s plasma weapon from her belt. She brought it to bear on the nearest mite. “After I fire… we will run… for the airlock.”

  The Groom squeezed the stick, and the lightning stream arced through the haze. It caught the fire-mite squarely in its central thorax – and glanced harmlessly off the creature’s thick chitin armor. The mite shook itself and, unfazed, began to creep toward them.

  “Fire again,” Charlie screeched. “Fire, fire!”

  Treth aimed and squeezed off another shot, striking the creature on one of its large claws but still with no visible effect. Zenn could’ve told Treth why: fire-mites were extremophiles, and their armor had evolved to withstand precisely the sort of super-heated energy the plasma weapon produced.

  “We must find… another way. Go back.” As Treth spoke, four more mites crept up behind them, cutting off retreat.

  A rasping intake of air sounded behind Zenn and Jules lost his balance, teetered momentarily and tipped forward, falling into Zenn and Treth. Liam grunted with the effort of trying to keep Jules from knocking them all out of the scrim’s protective dome. Huddling up closer to her, Charlie whimpered pitifully.

  The circling pack drew in from all sides. The closest mite was almost inside the scrim. Zenn could hear the sound of its claws, the serrated pincers clacking inches from her face. Then Liam was pressing up next to her; he was trying to put himself between her and the approaching creature.

  Then the snapping claws, and the mite they were attached to, were gone. Zenn shifted just enough to see around Jules and Liam. A few feet away, one of the Vhulk stokers held the attacking fire-mite in one massive paw. Lifting the struggling predator as if it were weightless, the Vhulk hurled it into the murky air and out of sight. It landed somewhere with a crunch of cracking chitin and a loud screech. Zenn saw that two more Vhulks had also waded into the pack and were flinging away any creature that hadn’t already retreated into the shadows.