Found Girl

by Pauline Baird Jones

  He’d done sim tows, but this was the first time he’d tried it in the real world of outer space with a bunch of rocks in play. He reduced the slack on the tow line, then began easing the bogey in closer to his ship. Good thing he knew his math. And had a computer on board. He calculated the distances, tried the line to get a feel for the timing between pull and movement—something the computer couldn’t help with. When he was sure he’d got it, he eased his ship out of the stream of rocks. Once he was clear he waited and watched for the right moment—there it was. He tugged the ship toward his—it got bumped by one of the rocks and accelerated toward him. His sensors screamed as the bogey threatened to bump heads with his Dauntless.

  In slow motion, he tried to correct, even as the bumped rock went on to bump another, causing a slow motion cascade effect as they headed off in different directions, including toward him and the bogey. Trouble was, he was moving slow, too. Sweat beaded his face as he jinked and tugged, trying to get both ships out of the collision zone. One rock tracked close enough to make his Dauntless cry like a baby and started some chatter from home plate and his squadron. He didn’t have time to talk as another rock tried to cut his tow line—it twanged a bit but held. He had to speed up to keep the bogey from looping around and hitting him head on, though.

  And then, just like that, both ships were in the clear—both those still following the main course and the bumped ones—continued on without them.

  In the confusion, the line of rocks had ended up between him and the Boyington, but the line had an end point. He frowned. Kind of odd, that, them tracking along like a mute squadron, but he was glad to have a clear course back to home plate—

  Something flickered on his com panel, so quick he thought he’d imagined it. Until it happened again. He opened his mouth to demand a systems check, but never got the words out as a message formed on his screen.

  Thank you for your assistance, Banshee. Some systems on this ship are damaged. Pilot injured. Request emergency transit to your ship.

  Coop had to clear his throat to get out, “You seeing this, home plate?”

  “Affirmative, Banshee.” A long pause. “Permission for expedited transit.”

  3

  Trajan Bester retreated to his ready room, but he did not rush to open a channel to his client. Instead, he paced slowly, considering how to frame his failure as a delayed success. It might be a bigger challenge than his few days on the backward Bosakli. How he hated being dirt side.

  His client would not be pleased that the item had not been secured, but he was not an unreasonable…species. Or less than most, Bester amended. There were stories—but of more concern was losing his very substantial payment and future commissions from a collector with such deep pockets.

  It had not been Bester’s idea to integrate with the planet’s society or to make such cautious approach to the item. If he’d been allowed his usual snatch and grab, the item would already be on its way. He also had not known there were competitors for the item. His client had neglected to mention that in his briefing.

  Still, Bester had seen no sign of other, off planet interest during his time down there. None of the other pact bond males had shown signs of being more than the useful drones the Consortium had designed them to be. Not that he relied solely on his eyes, but he’d sensed nothing from them but interest in the farm. Most had barely looked at the item.

  Almost, he’d agreed with them. Drab clothes, downcast gaze, a subtle sense of defeat in its posture despite the Consortium mandated erect posture. A female drone preprogrammed by the Consortium to farm and breed more drones. Then its lashes lifted and—briefly—he’d seen distrust and dislike in a gaze of surprising intelligence. How had that awareness survived Consortium screening? He watched it carefully after that, but it was no fool. It hid its loathing of the pact bonding preliminaries and him.

  It was, he recalled thinking, a pity his contract required the item to be delivered intact. He could have had a little fun before he froze it for delivery. He preferred his partners unwilling, which it was. But it was not worth the risk. Nothing was more important than payment.

  Curiosity was dangerous for someone like him, but he was not able to be completely immune, not since he found out there was competition. Why was his client willing to pay so much for this artifact? Who had out maneuvered both of them? He needed to know what he was up against, he told himself. He hadn’t had to look hard. One could not kick around the galaxy grabbing artifacts for collectors and not have heard more than one of the legends of the Seven. Almost every species in the galaxy had a myth about them, ranging from the simple—they were witches who cursed the enemies of their friends, to the ridiculous—that they controlled some super weapon. He took care in his search, however. Pleasing his client was of more concern than hyped up legends of some ancient tangram.

  Might as well believe in the return of the missing Phoenicopterians. That was the problem with myths. No way to know what was true and what had been corrupted by time and telling. Too bad the Mycterians—who were credited with causing the disappearance of the Phoenicopterians—weren’t the ones who disappeared. That was a nasty species. If the stories were to be believed, they’d not been satisfied at driving the Phoenicopterians out of the galaxy. They’d spent the time since trying to find them so they could eradicate them. He’d managed to stay off their radar, but it hadn’t been easy. He’d almost jumped into a swarm of them while heading for this system to collect the item. Still broke out in a cold sweat thinking about it. As he was coming in, they were going out, or that wouldn’t have ended well.

  If the task wasn’t difficult enough, apparently there was a legend linking the Seven with the Phoenicopterians. How ironic would it be if his search for the lost artifact took him into a nest of Mycterians?

  He strode over and poured himself a drink, tossed it back, welcoming the burn in his throat and the fire it put in his belly. The artifact was worth a lot to him, but the Mycterians? He shuddered. They liked to feast on defeated enemies while they were still alive. He poured another shot and took it with him to his station, dropping into his chair. He took a pull from his glass, and then pulled up the next report. According to this, his client had received similar artifacts from Bester’s rivals—and occasional allies. It was a big galaxy. Sometimes the only people a mercenary could trust were his closest enemies. The people who hired him would never admit they knew him, let alone help him in a tight spot.

  They hadn’t been paid as much as he would be getting, he noted. Because the artifacts were in cold sleep. Lucky him. He got the one that was awake and able to fly away. He took another drink, just enough to take the edge off fear and leave him with his lust for the money. He had pride in his work, too. He always delivered the goods. The client knew this, had told him it was why he’d been hired for this artifact.

  So how did he get it back?

  He had Elfel, his best man, going over the scans from the anomaly. An anomaly that hadn’t appeared in any data on the Consortium system. He’d like to shoot someone for that, but he was a fair man. The Consortium was a mostly closed system. Oh, they allowed pirates to operate in the fringes, to keep people in or out. And his ship had been in the wrong place for an intercept. All he could do was watch in frustration as the small ship came under heavy fire. He’d been sure it was doomed when the anomaly appeared. It wasn’t clear if the ship took the out, or was pulled inside. Didn’t matter. The result was the same.

  It was gone.

  Would the client blame him? Clients usually did. And what was he supposed to tell it? It did not like excuses, though he had good ones. He finished the glass and got another, tossing it back, too.

  He had video. He had scans of the ship. He had scans of the anomaly.

  He did not have the item. And he did not know where it had gone.

  His comm trilled. It was Elfel.

  “Yes?”

  “I might have something, sir.”

  “What?” He had drunk enough that his h
opes could not rise.

  “The ship had a tracking beacon broadcasting on a specialized frequency.”

  He tried to form the question, then wondered why he bothered. One of Elfel’s specialties was finding what others could not. Besides, beacons had a limited range because of people like Elfel.

  “I thought it was beyond reach,” Elfel said.

  Bester straightened or thought he did. “Are you telling me it is not? That you can track it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hope bloomed, then dimmed. “How far?”

  “We’ll need to use an unregistered jump gate to get there. We don’t have a handy anomaly to ride.”

  Bester did some math. Jump gate access was not cheap, particularly unregistered ones.

  On the other hand, he had hard information to offer his client in exchange for…understanding about the delay.

  4

  He’d asked for it, Coop reminded himself. He’d wanted to meet some actual aliens, but when he’d imagined first contact it had not been with a lizard.

  Hadn’t he learned to be careful what he wished for? This was going to be hard to live down.

  Almost he wished Pappy had ordered him out of the bay with the other personnel. Curiosity had long been Coop’s curse. This time it had landed him in the super secret bay that didn’t look that interesting, with a lizard and a security team in hazmat gear. He glanced around, wondering if he could leave now. Probably not. Bet the bay was locked down until they assessed the risk level of a lizard. They’d learned a bit about alien bugs and trusting too soon during their adventure in the Garradian system. Coop had left on his zoom bag, with his head gear in place, just for this reason.

  The lizard didn’t look worried. It had slithered into view not long after a hatch had opened on the snub-nosed end of the ship. It had stopped at the top of the ramp, and no one had moved or said anything for what felt like a long time. At this rate, the injured pilot would be dead before anyone did anything—though he did wonder what kind of help the lizard was hoping for. He didn’t think there was a vet on board.

  He glanced around. He wasn’t wearing his red shirt, but he had volunteered to take the big risks. The fact that team had also agreed to this didn’t seem to have moved the dial yet. With a quick sigh, he headed for the lizard, easing through the semi-circle, pushing up one gun so he could pass. He strolled to the bottom of the ramp. Up close, the sight of the lizard was a bit unnerving. Not exactly small. He hesitated, but he’d come this far. He nodded in what he hoped was a non-threatening way.

  “Hey.” The single word kind of echoed in the nearly empty bay. He might have fielded a couple of looks from the team, for which he did not blame them. He’d just said “hey” to a lizard. This would be the main reason he’d not been picked for the First Contact Team—

  I am a Draze Dragon, not a lizard.

  Coop looked left, right, and then arched a brow in the liz—dragon’s direction.

  You may board this craft, Banshee. And someone with human medical experience. The lizard’s gaze seemed to sweep over him and the team. There is no need for your protective gear. I have sanitized the ship for your safety.

  Human? Coop glanced back at the team leader. “Did you hear anything?”

  “Sir, no, sir.” He got a better grip on his weapon.

  Only you can hear me, Banshee.

  “Okay.” Coop hesitated. Looked like he’d been added to the first contact team by dragon default. He lifted a foot to the ramp. His comm pinged.

  “Captain.” Pappy’s voice had a warning question.

  “Someone needs to do something, sir.” He unlatched his head gear and took it off, handed it to the guy closest to him.

  “If you’re wrong…”

  Coop didn’t say what they were both thinking. That first contact usually went wrong, so they might as well get it over with. If it was his day to be a red shirt, then waiting wouldn’t change that. He looked back at the camera and lifted a brow.

  The pause went on for what felt like long, then Pappy said, “Go.”

  “Can we get a medical doc headed this way, too, sir? For the injured pilot?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Coop didn’t wait for a doc. If something was going to go wrong, better it happen before the doc arrived. He started up the ramp and the liz—the dragon—turned, vanishing inside with a twitch of its tail. The click of claws against metal gave him a direction to follow. The craft felt bigger on the inside than it had looked. As a Dr. Who fan, he liked that, while admitting it also made him a bit uneasy. It wasn’t that big, though.

  The passage seemed to follow the curve of the ship’s hull around a bulging bulkhead that lay directly ahead. The liz—dragon paused and looked back at Coop.

  “What?” Had he done something wrong already?

  Your shirt does not appear to be red.

  “Not yet,” Coop said. Because he didn’t want to explain, he glanced around. “Your pilot?”

  The dragon moved again, and a hatch opened, like a metal eye, in the center of the bulge, revealing a figure sprawled on the floor. Light fell on the dragon as it entered what he guessed was the bridge, mostly because everything he could see looked like a bridge. And, he wanted it to be a bridge. It was a fighter pilot thing.

  Her restraints failed during the transit, which was…rather rough.

  Considering the rocks they’d arrived with, this did not surprise Coop. He paused in the hatch opening and looked around. There was a pilot’s chair designed for a humanoid pilot, and one for the dragon. The dragon’s was a space age pet carrier with seat belts. Broken straps hung off the other seat, confirming the failed restraints.

  The injured pilot, definitely humanoid, had landed between the metal supports for the two seats, one arm flung out, the other half trapped under her body. She wore a simple jumpsuit, one devoid of insignia, as far as he could tell. Sturdy boots, almost the same color as her jumpsuit, had bits of mud clinging to the soles. Her hair was brown, longish. Her skin was tanned, well, by Earth standards. Could be her natural color. At least she wasn’t purple, like some of the Garradian system’s humanoids.

  The dragon scrambled up to its spot as if to get out of his way.

  With the pilot down, it was almost standing room only, and the dragon did have more legs.

  Coop crouched and studied her hand. It looked humanoid, was well shaped and strong, but the long fingers had callouses at the tips, and there were tiny cuts and signs of old bruising as if she had done some serious physical labor. He felt her wrist for a pulse, wondering if she’d have one and how he was supposed to know if it was normal or not. He’d had more than basic first-aid training before deploying with Project Enterprise, but there hadn’t been a section on alien physiology. By their standards, her pulse felt strong and regular.

  Her physiology is very similar to yours.

  He glanced at the dragon, not comfortable with the idea he heard its voice inside his head.

  It is the only way we can communicate. My physiology is not designed for human speech.

  Dragon had a point. “Can anyone else hear you?” he asked, a slight movement from the pilot drawing his attention back to her.

  Other than you? My pilot can hear me.

  “That’s going to be hard to explain.” Doc was taking too long, but if her physiology was similar, Coop could do a quick check, maybe juice things along on the first contact front—he ran his hands along her arm, feeling for broken bones. When he found nothing, he cautiously straightened the limb to a more comfortable position. She didn’t protest, so he scrambled around the dragon carrier and checked out her legs. He felt the flex of muscles under his hands, and she straightened them without his help, her back arching as if she were regaining consciousness. He went back to her head.

  “Try not to move until the doc gets here,” he said, then made a face at himself. She probably couldn’t understand him—though the dragon did. And how was that possible? In the movies, there were universal translato
rs, but real life—he glanced—he had a dragon. There was a joke in there somewhere.

  She either didn’t understand him or didn’t care. She shifted her body into a less painful configuration, wincing a fair bit in the process and groaning once. Her lashes lifted, revealing eyes that were a mix of blue and green, not unlike the surf off the Virginia coast where he liked to sail when he wasn’t boldly going somewhere. Her lashes were the same brown as her hair and thick, the dark brows arching over her eyes. Her lips were compressed into a straight line over a determined jaw.

  For what felt like a long moment, she stared at him, confusion flickering in the depths.

  “There was some kind of transit accident. You’re on board our ship—the Boyington,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, even if she couldn’t understand his words. “Well, you’re aboard your ship which is on board the Boyington.” She gave a slight nod which could have meant almost anything. “Where does it hurt?”

  She untangled her arm from the support and felt the back of her head. Coop gently pushed her hand away and explored her scalp. Found a decent sized lump.

  “What about your ribs? Any pain when you breathe?”

  She shook her head. “Do I…who did you say you were?”

  She spoke slowly as if the words were new to her and she had an accent of some kind. D’oh. The alien kind. “I’m Coop—Captain Jackson Cooper, ma’am. United States Air Force. And you are—”

  Her chin dipped slightly causing her to wince. “Arian. Arian Teraz.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “The honor is mine, sir.”