by Jay Allan
“We found live survivors.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, but it hit her like a hammer.
“Survivors of what? Some forgotten expedition? Have we actually encountered some smuggler traffic out this far?”
“Negative, Commodore. They appear to be actual survivors. Of the Cataclysm.” A short pause. “Or, at least, their descendants.”
Eaton just sat in her chair, silent for a moment, trying to accept what the Marine officer had told her. She’d probably have written the words off to space-fever or delusions if they’d come from almost anyone else. But Bryan Rogan was the coolest, most controlled person she’d ever met.
“Are you sure, Bryan?” It was a stupid question, and she realized that the instant it escaped her lips. It was hard to believe they’d found people living out this far, but unless the entire landing party was suffering from hallucinations, there didn’t seem to be any doubt.
“Yes, Commodore. There’s no question.” The general paused. “They’re…different. We’re trying to communicate, but we can’t understand them…and it doesn’t seem they know what we’re saying either.” Another hesitation. “And, they’re…” She could tell Rogan was struggling for words. “…altered.”
“Altered?” She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.
“They seem to have a variety of physical…defects. Many of them seem unable to stand completely upright, and others seem to have partially withered arms or legs or strange lesions on their faces or extremities.”
“Could they be injured? Crash victims, perhaps?”
“That was my first thought, too…but, I don’t think so, Commodore. It seems almost like they’re suffering from mutations of some kind, possibly from the atomic bombardments that obviously occurred here, and maybe also from chemical or biological agents used. They also appear to be members of a primitive culture of some sort.”
Eaton leaned back in her chair, trying to understand the implications of Rogan’s statement. She knew that some of the outer worlds, planets in systems now part of the Confederation or one of the other powers, had fallen into primitive barbarism of a sort after the Cataclysm. Some planets had lost more technology than others, barely hanging onto basic civilization. It was the retention of a significant knowledge base that gave worlds like Megara and Montmirail an advantage over their neighbors and led to the formations of the Confederation and the Union. But, she’d never heard of a civilization fallen as low as the one Rogan seemed to be describing.
“Do the best you can to try to establish some kind of communication, Bryan. I’m sending down another wave of landing parties. I’ll get you every expert we’ve got…and, we’ll go from there.”
“Very well, Commodore. We’ll do our best down here.”
“Good luck, Bryan.” Eaton cut the line, and then she turned toward the comm station. Before she did anything, she had to report this to Admiral Barron.
“Get me Dauntless. Now.”
* * *
Rogan walked back toward the front of the group facing the—he wasn’t sure if “natives” was the right word, though he no longer doubted the people standing and watching the landing parties had been born on this world. His own people were mostly quiet, staring back in stunned shock, but the Marines had their weapons out and at the ready. He almost ordered them to sling their rifles, but he was a Marine himself, and he couldn’t help but think of the visitors as a potential threat.
They didn’t look terribly dangerous. In fact, when he got back from the comm post, they were laying prostrate in front of his people, almost as though they were kneeling…or paying homage of some kind.
He almost told them to get up…but they wouldn’t understand his words anyway. He turned and looked back behind him, toward the shuttles and the stunned crowd of Marines and scientists. “Where the hell is that thing?”
“Coming, sir.” The answer came from behind the crowd, and few seconds later, three Marines came running forward, carrying a large piece of equipment. It looked a bit like a portable workstation, but Rogan knew it was the mobile translation AI he’d ordered his people to retrieve. “Sorry, General. We had a tough time finding it. For a minute, I thought it got left behind.”
Rogan wouldn’t have been surprised. The shuttles had been stripped of most of their normal gear to make room for weapons and scanning equipment. The last thing anyone had expected was the need to translate between different tongues so deep in the long-dead empire. It was just dumb luck one of the units had remained aboard a shuttle and not gotten pulled out and thrown on the deck of a launch bay.
It was still a long shot at best anyway. He doubted it would be of any help. It was only programmed with known languages, and it was clear to Rogan that whoever these people were, they hadn’t come from the Confederation, or anywhere near it.
“Get that set up as quickly as possible.” He turned back toward the visitors, looking at them intently, panning his eyes across the group. There were ten of them, and every one was down on his or her hands and knees. Rogan wondered if it could be some kind of normal greeting…but it seemed very degrading for that. They almost looked like worshippers lying prostrate before a deity.
There were small piles in front of each of them. At first, Rogan couldn’t tell what they were, but now he realized they were polished stones and similar trinkets. Gifts? Perhaps a way to greet visitors?
But how would they have ever had visitors?
It didn’t make sense. Even if some small vestige of a civilization had survived on this world, bereft of the technology their ancestors had once possessed, it didn’t explain their apparent lack of astonishment at people landing on their planet in spaceships. They were respectful, even obsequious, but they didn’t seem surprised. Almost as if having visitors is a common occurrence…
Barron looked intently at the natives closest to him. They wore strange clothing, old and worn, and very simple—but clearly of some type of manufacture and not the kinds of skins or simple garments a truly primitive culture might wear. The men and women seemed to be dressed identically, each of them wearing a pair of brown pants and a tunic that looked like a cross between a shirt and a jacket. They were all filthy, their clothes torn in places and covered in some kind of thick, gray dust.
Rogan wished he had a cultural expert with him, but the landing party had been assembled to examine ancient technology…not some kind of civilization. He wondered if the fleet even had a decent cadre of anthropologists and language experts among its complement. He suspected if such personnel were there, Commodore Eaton and Admiral Barron were looking for them now.
“The AI is set up, General.” The lieutenant was standing next to the apparatus, looking at it like he was far from certain he’d know whether it was ready or not. But the landing party had its share of electronics and computer experts, and Rogan could see several of them nodding.
“Just bring this unit with you, General,” one of the engineers said. He handed Rogan a small device that looked like a microphone. After the general took it, the engineer gave him a headset. “The unit will translate anything picked up by the microphone and relay it to your headset. Assuming, of course, it is identifiable. The AI will estimate if it cannot positively identify any language, and it will provide a projected percentage chance of accuracy.” The engineer paused. “Once the unit has gained some data on the language in use, it will be able to convert your own speech as well.”
Rogan just nodded. He’d led desperate assaults, and faced almost certain death more than once, but this was a situation he’d never imagined. One all his years of training and experience had done nothing to prepare him to handle.
He walked toward the closest native, slowly, not wanting to appear threatening. He knelt down slowly, edged closer, and he reached out and touched the man’s shoulder.
The native jumped up and back from Rogan, shouting a series of words the Marine didn’t understand. No, Rogan thought, not shouting. The man’s tone was respectful, almost…reverential.
; “The subject is professing his loyalty to you, General.” The AI’s voice was loud in the headset. “Perhaps more than loyalty. The tongue appears to be a variant of the ancient imperial language, though the version in use by the subject is severely degraded. It is too early to make definitive assumptions, but the choice of words suggests a sharply limited vocabulary. Preliminary analysis indicates findings consistent with an ex-imperial culture that has regressed considerably.”
That made perfect sense to Rogan. It was clear the people standing in front of his Marines had fallen considerably in technology and knowledge. And they had to be the descendants of survivors of the Cataclysm. Where else could they have come from?
“Can you translate into their dialect?”
“Yes,” the AI responded. “Partially, at least. I do not have a sufficient pool of colloquialisms nor a firm idea of the limitations on vocabulary, but I do have a full database of all known variants of imperial languages.”
“Translate what I say.” Rogan took a deep breath. He hated being the point man in this contact. He felt out of his depth and far from his areas of expertise. But the natives were there, right in front of his people. He couldn’t exactly tell them to wait until Eaton got another wave of shuttles to the surface…and he was in command on the planet.
If they even understand what a shuttle is…
“Yes, General.”
Rogan looked toward the man closest to him. He had no real idea, but his gut told him that was the leader. “We have come in peace. We mean you no harm.”
Rogan paused as the AI’s emotionless voice broadcast from the unit’s speakers. He could make out some of what it was saying—the Prime Tongue used throughout most of the Rim was also based on ancient imperial, though it had evolved and changed considerably over the centuries. Still, many words were the same, or at least similar.
The man looked confused at first, his eyes darting around, trying to identify the source of what he was hearing. Finally, he turned toward Rogan, his head still downcast, and he spoke.
Rogan tried to follow what the man was saying, and he managed to pick up a few words, but the guttural nature of the speech made it difficult to pick out even recognizable words. Before he could make anything of it, the AI’s voice filled his headset. “I have been able to translate a portion of the subject’s speech. The grammar and structure differ considerably from any imperial norms in my database, but I was able to identify a sufficient sampling to decipher basic meanings. The response was almost certainly a greeting, though not one between equals. The subject is speaking to you as though you are a higher being.”
“You mean a superior rank?”
“No, not precisely. A better. A superior being. Not a deity, but something on that order. One term that has been repeated translates as ‘higher one’ or ‘master.’”
“Master? As in master and slave?” Slavery wasn’t an unknown concept among the Rimward nations, but no world in the Confederation had seen it for a century or more.
“There is a level of analytical speculation required to answer your question. I do not perceive a representation of literal ownership as much as a term of grave respect. There are definite indications of fear in the subject’s voice.”
“Respect? Like a peasant-lord relationship?”
“I do not believe your comparison is entirely accurate. There is a ninety-four percent probability that the subject considers himself an inferior being to you and the other members of the landing party. However, no indication has been given as to the source of such an assertion. It is possible the being’s deference is simply the result of seeing the technology on display, but I also detect signs of familiarity and ritual in the speech and actions of the natives.”
Rogan was really uncomfortable now. His entire life had been one subject to the rigidity of rank, and he’d seen his share of such things from both the bottom and the top. But that wasn’t what the AI was describing. The Confederation was a republic, and in theory, at least, its people were equal. There were other cultures, of course, with such hierarchies imposed by law. He didn’t have to look any farther than his Alliance allies to find an inflexible caste system enforcing institutional inequality. But, again, that wasn’t what the AI was telling him. Not exactly.
“Are you saying this person considers us gods?”
“Your terminology is too broad to acknowledge without qualifiers…yet, you are closer to the truth here. These people apparently consider you and the others to be higher order beings of some kind. They regard you with a combination of awe and fear.”
Rogan sighed, unsure how to proceed. He’d signed onto the mission, fully prepared to do his duty, to defend the members of the expedition from any dangerous old tech that might be active enough to cause a threat. But he’d never imagined finding survivors, and certainly not having them crawl before him as though he were some kind of god.
He glanced down at his chronometer. It would be at least another thirty minutes before the new wave of shuttles landed…and he wondered how his visitors would react to watching a whole flight of ships blasting their way down. Would they run in terror…or would it just reaffirm their belief that he and the others from the fleet were gods come down to them from the heavens?
“Shit,” he muttered softly, hoping the AI didn’t pick it up and translate it. I didn’t sign up for this…
Chapter Twenty-Two
CFS Repulse
Zed-11 System
Year 315 AC
Rogan walked through the sparse woods, following the group of natives. He’d managed to communicate to a certain extent, and while he was talking, he noticed the differences in the men and women who appeared to call the planet home. They were humans, of course, that much was clear, though they were…different…from his own people, and not just in language and knowledge. Most of them displayed physical variations beyond those typical of human beings. Some were completely hairless, others seemed to have misshapen limbs. A few appeared to have larger than normal heads or protruding foreheads.
Most of them seemed weaker than normal humans as well, and they moved slowly as they led the landing party to…wherever they were going. So slowly, he’d had to tell his people to slow down half a dozen times so as not to overtake their…hosts.
Rogan had no idea where they were being taken. He’d breathed a sigh of relief when the second wave of shuttles finally landed, and every expert or semi-expert Sara Eaton could find debarked and relieved him from his unwanted duties as primary ambassador to the residents of the planet. He gratefully fell back from the forefront of the exchanges and focused on organizing his Marines into security details to accompany the landing teams. The natives didn’t seem particularly threatening, but he wasn’t one to take chances. And, whatever was going on, it was certainly strange enough to warrant caution.
The natives did view his people as something close to gods. He’d managed to verify that much. From what the linguistics AI and the newly arrived experts had told him, they were being taken to a place where some kind of offering awaited them. That word gave him the willies. He didn’t know what it meant—other than something beyond the polished stones they’d been given earlier—but the whole situation was just to strange and unexpected for his tastes. Thoughts of all sorts of things drifted into his mind…baskets of grain, butchered animals, even human sacrifice. Anything seemed possible.
The group followed a rough path through the woods. They were moving south, away from the ruins of the great city. That, at least, was good news. Admiral Barron would want the city explored, almost certainly, but the radiation readings were quite high, even from almost ten kilometers distance, and any team planning to move closer or to explore the ruins themselves would need heavy protective gear. It would take time to shuttle down the equipment required, along with another group of experts to carry out the exploration. Meanwhile, everyone in the landing party had strict orders not to approach the dead city.
You assume it’s dead…but we thought the whole plane
t was dead…
Still, the radiation readings suggested nothing human, at least, could have survived long in the city. He imagined things like immense, mutated cockroaches, but then he scolded himself for foolishness.
He reached down to his belt and pulled off a small canister, replacing it with a fresh one from his pack. He was down to his last oxygen tank, and that meant he’d either have to get back to basecamp in another hour, or he’d have to risk breathing the native air.
The medical teams had already cleared the landing party to discard their breathing gear, but Rogan—still technically in command on the ground—had overruled them. He was cautious by nature, and too much had already happened far outside the parameters of what was expected. He suspected his people had moaned about the order, but he didn’t give any of it a second thought. They’d manage to endure the discomfort a while longer.
He slid the empty canister into his pack and slung it back over his shoulder. He supposed a general could delegate someone to carry his gear, but that wasn’t the way Rogan operated. He’d worked his way up from the bottom, and he’d never forgotten those days, not even after Tyler Barron had placed stars on his shoulders.
He twitched a little, feeling something strange on his arm. He reached around and scratched it, and then he continued forward, jogging a bit to catch up. There were buildings around now, on both sides of the rough path. They were huts—that was the kindest word he could think of to call them—small, ramshackle structures built of wood and what looked like dried mud. There were a few made of metal, what appeared to be old, repurposed sheets of thin aluminum or something similar. He wondered if the natives had salvaged them from the city, and he turned to order one of the technicians to take radiation readings…but he saw that he was too late. Three or four of those near him were already looking down at tablets, running a whole battery of tests, he assumed. They’d warn him if they detected anything dangerous. But, even without their warnings, Rogan was on edge. He didn’t like this place, he’d decided, and for reasons he couldn’t completely comprehend, he was sure nothing good would come of the fleet’s visit.
