by Sharon Lee
There was another noise then, low, a grumble that came from the capsule on the observer’s seat. Chernak glanced at the cat, imitated the low noise and was rewarded with flinched ears. She did it again and—
“Grakow!”
They laughed, made soothing motions. Stost put palm to lips to ask for quiet.
“Grakow,” the cat implied heavily, and they laughed, being what they could do as the tiny vessel rose above the wrecked skin and decks.
“Grakow, mah…” Chernak offered to the cat, now on its feet, stretched against the flimsy ballooned film that kept it steady in the zero-G. She laughed again, fiddling slightly with the radar controls as a debris field became evident, moving at a distant intersect.
Beyond the debris was a spacescape at once unfamiliar and strangely comforting—a dark and deep nothingness, smudged here and there with tails of gas, and a bright, unsteady light that might have been a star or a beacon or another ship.
Behind her, she heard a noisy intake of air.
“We broke through the Rim,” Stost said. “We see it from the far side.”
Indeed, thought Chernak, remembering to draw her own ration of air. The mission would have had them forsake the—their—universe for one supposedly unharried by the Enemy, and for which they had no use.
“It is comforting,” she said dryly, “to learn that the coords were good.”
Stost snorted a half-laugh, and she felt her own awe ease. In truth, they were ill-suited to awe. They functioned best in the terrains of practicality and fact. And, right now, practicality demanded that they orient, and attempt to find aid or ally in this empty piece of space.
Chernak touched a jet to slow the Bug, to allow that randomness to get beyond them as they explored, and the cat complained then: “Marrow!”
As if that had been a command, there came sudden sounds within their vessel: beacons, working beacons! A ship, in fact! The image on the screen went from a potential debris field to a solid thing, closing.
“Kerzong? Asmala kerzong? Chicancha! Kerzong!” Stost demanded, on comm, and repeated, “Identity? Will you share identity? Attention! Identity!”
* * * * *
“Power flare,” Joyita said again.
Theo felt the tingle down her spine. A piece of equipment had come on-line; energy had been released; radio waves were being bandied about. She and Bechimo shared the sensations while Win Ton and Joyita challenged each other with IDs for the static and frequencies of the vibrations reaching through the ether.
Joyita called out: “Shuttle sequence?”
Win Ton answered with, “Hold gates. Pressure gates.”
“Lifeboat!” Joyita said eagerly, but Win Ton doubted this—
“Taking too long for a lifeboat; it’s too complex—look!”
Radio energy and machine static sparkled inside Theo’s head—and across the screens.
Bechimo upped shields and drew subtly closer to the wreck, dancing between wariness and curiosity, waiting, waiting…
Another flare; their shields thickened in response.
“Shield too much, and we might invite hostility,” she cautioned him aloud, drawing Kara’s eyes and Clarence’s.
She intercepted those glances and added, “Clarence, be so kind as to uncap the manual fire switches. I note that the circuits are unpowered.”
“Captain,” he said, “uncapped. I note that we have no targeting information.”
“That is correct, Pilot,” Bechimo replied. “The captain has not authorized live targeting. We are merely ranging.”
Kara was guiding one of the free scans around a section of the wreck that seemed undamaged.
“This section probably still holds air,” she murmured, talking as much to Hevelin, who was acting as her second, as to Theo. “I’m not catching any energy spills, or power readings. None of the engine bays are live, nor any of the probable command points. Survivors…Could there be survivors, perhaps in suits, or…Oh!”
The scan had moved beyond the undamaged section, ridden across a gap in the debris cloud, and found a hole ripped into the shipside. It looks like a pool, thought Theo, and for one mad moment, the eyes wanted to make the floating bodies swimmers…
“No life readings,” Kara said, voice strangled.
There was a busier quiet on their bridge, and Theo felt Hevelin’s horror, even as she heard him whimper.
Kara spun the scan back toward the only section still green-limned as a potential survivor zone on the template Joyita provided.
“I have a signal!” she said sharply, Hevelin’s whistle echoing her excitement.
“On the far side of the green area,” she said, and Theo felt Bechimo focus their attention on the section—across the width of the wreck from their position—there! A tiny flare of power shivered down her backbone, barely warm.
“At skin level,” Kara said, still bent to her scan.
Theo felt Bechimo’s excitement; his verification of Kara’s data.
“That’s your lifeboat?” she asked the bridge at large.
“Not a lifeboat, I think, Theo,” Win Ton answered. “The position is wrong.”
“What then?”
“Perhaps a repair boat.”
That made sense, Theo thought. Lifeboats were kept near the skin, the bay rigged for a quick getaway. They’d seen what had remained of Orbital Aid 370’s lifeboats and bay. A repair boat, though, would have its system of routes to the skin, and a series of egress points.
“All right,” she said, nodding at Clarence. “We’re going in. Everybody look sharp.”
Bechimo’s feed became a rush; piloting math and approach scenarios twisted together in a frenzy of hope, in which she could barely keep her—
“Captain,” Joyita’s voice was like a lifeline thrown; gratefully, Theo focused on him. “We have a transmission. Not data. Unintelligible, but it may be a voice—human voice.”
“Let’s all hear it,” she said, taking a deep breath and consciously loosening her grip on the arms of her chair.
There came static, rustling sounds, a sharp snap, a low sound that might be someone muttering over an unfamiliar board…then—loudly and suddenly enough that all of them on the bridge jumped: “Grakow!”
Laughter—human laughter!—came over the open line.
“Grakow,” said the first voice again, insistent.
Theo felt a tug at her knee, and looked down to see Hevelin extending his arms toward her. She lifted him onto her lap, while more laughter came in response to that second declaration.
“Grakow, mah…” That was not the original voice, but a simulation of it…and a sound that might have been a low chuckle.
A video image was building on Screen Five, as Bechimo combined the data streams—
“There!” Theo cried, Bechimo’s internals showing her what was not yet visible on the screens. “Joyita—get me a line!”
Bechimo was tracking a very slow-moving object, just now coming into range of the screens as their motion made the hulk appear to roll under them. Theo leaned forward until Hevelin grabbed her arm for balance, watching as the object emerged from a port protruding from the aft of the ship, gingerly, like a mraka bird in Father’s garden, watching for the dangerous field birds that never came close to the Wall.
Bechimo was excited. He was overfeeding her with information on mass, albedo, spin, radio frequencies, item ID mismatches and probabilities, while on the bridge, Win Ton was confirming Joyita’s target acquisition, Kara backing him, and Clarence sitting pilot’s duty…
“Line available,” Joyita murmured.
Theo snatched on a headset, watching as the tiny object came fully free of the dead ship. She took a breath to speak…and hesitated. The form reminded her of something she’d seen not all that long ago…something under fire.
She had it then, and wished she hadn’t; her eyes stung with the memory.
Beeslady, the ship had been called. No Jump, little cargo capacity, no range but for inspection and local…the
ship she’d seen dying, then dead—the pilot she had been too late to save…
“Mrrow,” stated a voice that was definitely not human; laughter came again.
Theo shrank in on herself. Laughter in the face of such disaster? What crew would laugh, knowing their shipmates dead, the ship itself a tumbling wreck? Were they injured? In shock? Had—were these pirates, who had been responsible for the death of Orbital Three Seven Zero Service Unit, laughing in victory?
Negative, she heard Bechimo say, though it appeared that no one else of the crew heard him. The craft is underpowered and overused. Pirates would have provided better for themselves.
“I have activated navigation beacons,” Joyita said. “I have no confirmed language match as yet.”
“Nor I,” Bechimo said aloud.
“Kerzong? Asmala kerzong? Chicancha! Kerzong!” The voice was loud over comm, and Win Ton jerked to the edge of his chair.
“Yxtrang!” he said sharply to Joyita. “Cross-check Yxtrang.”
CHAPTER SIX
Repair Bug
The ship was real and it was careful; the cross section they could see changed rapidly until it was presenting head-on, a pod at its back or belly. The beat pulse of the warn-aways filled the little cabin even with the volume down.
“What ship?” Chernak asked her partner.
“Unknown silhouette. My guess, based on size and conformation: a small tradeship, but it could also be a planetary cutter of some kind. It has the lines of a ship that behaves well in atmosphere. There are markings, which I have recorded; look for yourself.”
A finger flick sent the video to Chernak’s screen. It was on loop, and she zoomed in on the rerun.
Markings, yes. Several of what might be numbers, some of what could be letters, and an image that was eerily familiar to them, now.
“Grakow…” she said.
“Yes,” Stost said. “It is a cat, I think.”
Static spat, loudly, followed by—a voice. Words. The Bug’s computer reported several frequencies at work.
“Our vessel auto-replies,” Stost reported. “Orientation, sounding stats…”
Words again; they were…
“Familiar,” Chernak said. “They slide past my ear. Stost—do you have them?”
“Not clear,” said Stost, who was the better at languages, “but they’re coming.”
Lights flickered across the Bug’s simple board.
“They will make another attempt,” Chernak murmured…
The signal this time was static free, as the tradeship found a frequency more compatible with its own.
“Chicancha! Kerzong!” a voice stated, with surprising authority. “Bechimolaughingcatstandby.”
The voice might have been female, assuming human; the accent was…deplorable.
“Civilian,” Stost muttered, as he worked his station, seeking to wring every crumb of information possible from the small brain of their ship.
Data appeared on Chernak’s screen, among them the ominous information that the approaching ship had engaged shielding far stronger than mere meteor shields.
Faced with the wreck beneath them, Chernak thought, so would she. Also, she would have every weapon live and targeted directly on the stranger vessel.
Them.
With weapons very much on her mind, she slowed the Bug’s acceleration, overruling by main force the idiot vessel’s tendency to spin, so that they showed the same face to the unknown ship. It was rescue or doom, that ship, which was now seen to be adjusting course into an achingly slow intercept.
“Give them something,” she murmured, squinting at the screens. “Identification.”
Grakow made a noise like torn steel, but Stost spoke past it, slowly and clearly.
“Kerzong. Chernak Pathfinder. Stost Pathfinder.”
Time ran, their breathing was loud in the small cabin, their hands largely still, their eyes busy. Waiting, the soldier’s lot.
“Kerzong.” This was a new voice, light but, Chernak thought, male. So, at least two crew on the tradeship, as well.
“Kerzong,” the second voice said again. “Win Ton yo’Vala Scout.”
“He names himself?” she asked Stost.
“I think so; it would follow the pattern we offered.”
“Shall we speak again, then?”
“Let us wait a moment. He may have something else.”
In fact, Win Ton yo’Vala Scout did have something else; a question.
“Asmana Trang? Asmana Pathfinder chi Pathfinder?”
“Stupid accent,” Stost grumbled under his breath. “Will all of you always be made of Troop? Will all of you always be made of Pathfinder by Pathfinder? Even a civilian might learn tense!”
“They can count and they can hear,” Chernak said. “They have an undamaged spaceship, which they appear to handle with skill. We, my Stost, have an inspection buggy that grows…somewhat lower on amenities as time passes. Correct them gently.”
“Of course, Elder. I offer all courtesy.”
There was a sharp click as Stost depressed the key on his board. He spoke, proud, clear, and loud, as befitted one of the Troop, making the offer their service required.
“Asdameni Trang chist Pathfinder. Kaln zedatavant?”
He looked over his shoulder at her then, lips on the verge of giving away his smile.
“We two together are of the Troop, ranked as Pathfinders. Do you require the aid we might both provide you?”
* * * * *
Joyita had chosen Theo’s Screen Eight, as being visible to the entire bridge, to display the translation of the message from the repair boat.
Theo blinked; Kara laughed outright.
“Not awarding extra points, eh?” She shook her head, still grinning. “At least they don’t demand our immediate surrender!”
“There’s that,” Theo said. “Maybe they’re low on air.”
Joyita was positively beaming from his screen.
“This is excellent! We have started a dialogue! I am cross-filing, and building a dictionary. Dictionaries will be available at Win Ton’s station and at Theo’s, with cues. We should have a working pidgin very soon!”
He sounded, Theo thought, positively overjoyed. Of course, he was comm officer for a reason, and her understanding was that the…original, long-dead Joyita had been something of a linguist.
“Captain?” Win Ton murmured. “Your response?”
Right, her response. Theo thought about Kara’s laughter, and about her brother Val Con’s house guard of…former Yxtrang, who were chain-of-command oriented. She thought it might even be…soothing for people who had just been through…whatever it was that the people in the repair boat had been through, to get a nice, formal response from an authority figure.
So then.
She nodded at Win Ton.
“Please say that the captain thanks them for their offer, but this ship is secure. Work with them and with Joyita on getting this pidgin he’s so excited about on-line. We need clear communication about our intentions and methods. We’re going for a—a rendezvous and recover, and we don’t want any mistakes. Get a status report first; determine if they’re injured, or if they are in immediate need.”
Hevelin leaned against her suddenly, voicing a barely audible burble. She looked down, and felt a tickle along the edge of her mind, not quite the same as her link with Bechimo, and not at all like a trance-state conversation with Hevelin usually produced. The sensation faded, leaving an idea lodged in Theo’s mind.
She looked back to Win Ton.
“Determine who else is with them. All present, we want to know how many, and their condition. Also, permit them to know that Captain Theo Waitley commands this ship and this region of space.”
Win Ton produced a grave half-bow and turned to his dictionary screen.
“Explain to them that we’re translating from an incomplete dictionary,” Theo said. “Tell them—” Her voice broke, as she looked at the drifting remains of the wreck below them.<
br />
“Tell them,” she said carefully, “that we salute the valor of their efforts and offer honor to those who fell in the passage.”
* * * * *
“So then, Cat. That is you in this place, Grakow. Are you not pleased to have a kind here?”
Stost was bent low, elbows and legs braced against wall and floor. He spoke to Grakow as if to a comrade, while Chernak, feet in stirrups as she stood at the board in zero-G, coaxed information from their craft. She learned, laboriously, that the ship with which they conversed had several power sources. Despite being a trader, it showed multiple scars that had the very look of wounds taken in battle. Perhaps it was not always so peaceful as it now presented itself. It wasn’t unknown for traders to become pirates, at need, or at whim.
This research—it was a habit with her. She was a pathfinder, and the habit of seeking knowledge was, if not bred into her, then ingrained, first by training, then by practical experience. This ship—this Bechimo—had imposed itself upon them, so she must—must!—learn what she might about it…and from it.
The ship Bechimo was under the command of Captain Theo Waitley, who claimed likewise to be in command of local space.
And who, by a night march, could dispute that point? thought Chernak. Certainly, were the situation otherwise, she would claim for herself as much as there was to command in local space. But did Trade Captain Waitley believe she outranked two pathfinders? That was a troubling question—more than enough, certainly, to prompt a pathfinder to seek what answers she might find.
“Captain Waitley and her crew,” Stost said, apparently having concluded his conversation with Grakow, “have explained the rules of engagement very clearly, Pathfinder. They have refrained from the word rescue. They are respectful.”
He did this sometimes, Stost did, following her thoughts as easily as if they shared the same head, offering, if she might suppose it of him, comfort.
“Ship crew includes Comm Officer Joyita, and Liaison Officer Win Ton, to whom I speak most often. They have referred questions to a head tech, to the captain, perhaps to others. They have been clear that they intend as a matter of course to arrive elsewhere with us aboard at some point, and they have taught us both that the language of the Troop is an oddity to them, spoken rarely enough between them that they resort to dictionaries. Grakow, I note, they seem willing to accept as an equal.”
