The Sentients of Orion

by Marianne de Pierres

  A short time later they called everyone to them and handed out the last portions of the xoc. Several days old now, the sea creature tasted bitter. Yet its dry flesh filled the gnawing emptiness in his belly. Trin had ceased to think of food as a pleasure; it was merely a necessity, of which there was never enough.

  ‘I’ll fish again tonight,’ said Djes to the group.

  ‘And we will begin our search for other foods, and bring more water back,’ Trin added.

  Despite the bitterness of the xoc and the discomfort of the gravelled cave floor on which they sat, people began to contribute ideas. Optimism sparked into a flame.

  A few nights without constant wearing travel, dehydration and exposure would return even more of their confidence. And Trin would be there to steer them. He had been right not to mention the craft he and Djeserit saw from the mountaintop. His people were too fragile for false hope.

  JO-JO RASTEROVICH

  There had been very few instances in his life when Jo-Jo Rasterovich hadn’t been able think of a reply to a question. But this was one of them.

  As he knelt beside the mercenaries Randall and Catchut, clawing at the inside wall of the Post-Species ship that held them captive, he had nothing to offer.

  ‘Rasterovich!’ Randall’s imperative was sharp and unhappy. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, how are we going to get us out of this fucking thing?’

  Jo stared at the ridging on the ship’s smooth inner skin where Mira Fedor’s biozoon had torn itself away from the Medium. He shook his head. ‘I’m the one who had the idea that we should get out. Your turn to come up with how.’

  Rast shot him a frantic intense stare. The mercenary looked worse than shit, Jo-Jo thought. Her hair was messed stiff with dry Extro goo, her skin was whiter than anything that had blood running beneath it should be, and her eyes... They reminded Jo-Jo of a trapped and vicious animal, one that would gnaw its arm off to get free. He had to think of a way to get out of the Extro ship, or Randall would likely kill herself, and possibly him, trying.

  He sympathised with that feeling. His iniquitous confinement on Dowl station and then a recent stint paralysed beneath Extro goo with only his own thoughts for company were enough to convince Jo-Jo that death was preferable to further entrapment.

  No doubt the stare he bestowed back on Randall matched hers for lunacy. But thanks to the interference of the newly discovered, and infinitely obtuse, Sole Entity he found he could still think, as well as panic. Randall’s unfocused terror suggested that she couldn’t.

  Whatever Sole had done to Jo-Jo’s mind had given him the ability to think in two entirely different ways. It wasn’t like that all the time, but under pressure he felt the division like two slices of fruit sliding apart. Emotion and logic—clearly separated, not messily and inextricably interwoven as it was for most sentients.

  He glanced at Catchut. The ‘esque nursed a broken wrist and a groggy expression that ruled him out as a source of ideas.

  ‘If it’s anything like human tissue, the scar is always the strongest part. Like a broken bone. Let’s concentrate on an area close to the edge of the scar.’

  Randall nodded. ‘Sounds right.’

  No, it didn’t. Jo-Jo knew it as he said it. The Medium had travelled though space and res-shift; there would be no weakness. But he needed to keep Randall distracted and working on something while he thought of a solution.

  He picked a spot near the corner of the scar and began pinching at it. It was surprisingly malleable. ‘Help me.’

  Randall immediately began gouging with her fingers. Catchut leaned a hand on the wall but didn’t have enough strength to do anything more.

  Jo-Jo pinched and pulled the area in front of him while he sought an idea. He couldn’t go back inside the Medium data flow now that the substance beneath them had solidified. Not that he wanted to. Being suspended within the Post-Species auditory space, deprived of most of his senses, had been the second worst experience of his life. The first was being shot out into space in an EVA suit with little air and no certainty of being rescued.

  Perhaps he should just confess to Randall that he was out of ideas and—

  ‘Rasterovich!’ Randall shouted.

  Jo-Jo couldn’t wrap his tongue around a reply because the floor buckled up underneath his feet and propelled him towards the wall. He tried to brace himself, but the momentum drove him head first into the area he’d been prodding.

  Instead of the impact he expected to feel, though, his head was suddenly encased by the wall substance, and a smothering sensation overpowered him. He fought to pull back, to breathe, paddling his hands, pushing frantically. But the wall tightened around his head and began to suck him forward, encasing his shoulders and then his waist.

  Again. The Medium was devouring him again.

  But this time, as he let go of his spent breath, his head crowned into clear air and space. He blinked and gasped in sweet painfully pure oxygen. Dizziness came and went. His eyes cleared, then blurred, then cleared again. He felt wind on his skin, heat, and then he was falling.

  This time the expected impact occurred, jarring every last piece of him, robbing him of breath again. And yet, miraculously, he was still alive. His brain began to organise images and sounds—moans of pain and garbled words.

  He rolled over and spat out a mouthful of sand. Suddenly he was hot. Hotter than he’d ever been. His fingers moved convulsively, scraping at whatever coated his body. More sand. Warm grains stuck to his skin.

  ‘Jo-Jo!’

  ‘Yeah.’ It took a while, but he got the word out, spitting more sand with it.

  Someone he knew had said his name. Mira? He’d been thinking about her, seemed to always be thinking of her. He wanted to look at her face, but sand stung his eyes, so he forced himself up onto his elbows. A haze hovered over his thoughts, his senses only working roughly, but the leverage gave him something to work with.

  Darkness. Grades of it. Above him was an expansive gloom littered with sparkling beads. In front of him there was something denser and more... sinister. It struck him as funny that he could come up with that word just now. He wanted to laugh, but a stinging slap snatched that thought away.

  ‘RASTEROVICH!’

  Abruptly his vision cleared. He was outside, under stars, with the Post-Species ship encroaching on the greater part of his vision. Rast Randall was talking to him, not Mira Fedor, and the mercenary was as belligerent as he’d ever heard her.

  ‘For fuck sakes, get with it! We’re out! We’re fucking out!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We got spat out, maybe? You stink like shit. I dunno.

  Let’s get Catchut moving before they change their minds and suck us back in. Or the Saqr find us.’

  Saqr. He crawled over to Catchut, positioning himself alongside so that he could hook Catchut’s arm over his shoulder.

  ‘So far—I’ve had—all—the ideas. Now you—tell me—which—damn direction,’ he told Randall, thick-tongued.

  The mere pointed without hesitation to rows of scant dotted lights, high above and beyond the dark shape of the spacecraft. ‘That’s gotta be Mount Pell over there. Which means we’re close to the landing port. Can’t see it till we get round the other side of this thing.’

  Jo-Jo shouldered Catchut’s weight, his feet sinking into the sand and his legs trembling. He wouldn’t be able to walk far. ‘You’re sure we’re on Araldis?’

  ‘Smells and feels like the same dry piece of crap to me. Sure hot enough to be. Now shut up until we’re further away,’ said Rast.

  Jo-Jo saved his breath for the effort needed to get past the Medium’s never-ending girth and over the dunes to the mountain.

  He felt better as they walked, buoyed by the blood flow returning to his body. The euphoria of movement wouldn’t last long, though. He’d been inactive for too long, nourished only on Sole-knows-what. This burst of energy would fade.

  Activity seemed to help Catchut as well, and he began to take more and more of h
is own weight until he eventually shrugged them off.

  Jo-Jo relinquished his hold on the wiry mere with relief.

  ‘I’m figuring the port’ll be crawling with Saqr still,’ said Rast, when she deemed it a safe enough distance from the Extro craft to speak. ‘Maybe that’s why they spat us out. They think we won’t stand a chance out here.’

  ‘Coulda spat us into the vac, Capo.’

  ‘I doubt it’d be able to thin its skin in space to junk us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘Or maybe it’d learned what it needed?’

  ‘Like what?’ Randall’s voice was sharp and clear, even though she was a few paces ahead of him.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Yeah, well here’s—what—I—got,’ Randall puffed as she floundered doggedly up the next dune.

  Jo-Jo had to force his legs along harder to keep up with her. Randall had her weaknesses, but stamina wasn’t one of them.

  Catchut did the same, habit more than anything else.

  Randall stopped at the top and caught her breath before saying more.

  ‘I’m reckonin’ the Extros are here cos they need somethin’. More’n likely a mineral that Araldis has, but not necessarily. Could be somethin’ else as well. Thing is, between that motherfuckin’ big drum of weirdness and the Saqr, they don’t need much to survive here. The Medium appears self-sufficient, and the Saqr are primitive as fuck. Jancz and like might be the only other ‘esques here apart from any survivors.’ She stared towards the darker outline of the mountain. ‘I’m bettin’ that whatever hasn’t burned up there is still how the Latinos left it. There’s got to be an AiV in one of those fancy places that works, or that we can get to work. We do that, then we can go scout for anyone left alive. Mira said she told Pellegrini to head for the islands. If they’ve made it, that’s where they’ll be.’

  It was a long speech for someone not long out of a puddle of Extro goo, and her voice got hoarser with each word. Jo-Jo took some time to digest it all. ‘So we’ve just got to dodge Saqr till we find something that can fly?’

  Randall started down the dune and they automatically followed her. ‘You got it. More important though...’

  ‘Yeah?’ As they reached the bottom, Jo-Jo felt firmer ground under his feet and the sting of pebbles.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  Jo-Jo could see her pointing to the sky. Sunrise was coming.

  ‘We’ve got to get to shade before Leah’s up, or we’ll be mummified before you can think jack shit.’

  TEKTON

  Tekton’s legs didn’t seem to want to hold him upright. Fortunately, the nanosuit he’d borrowed from Samuelle lent him stability. A glance across Commander Farr’s cabin told him that the old Stain Wars veteran Jelly Hob was feeling much the same.

  The pair had been arguing over Tekton’s wild demands—that Hob fly him back to Belle-Monde—when Farr’s com-sole had activated to record the summit meeting on Intel station. At first they’d paid only scant attention to it, too busy with their own exchange, and the fact that Hob had discovered Tekton trying to access the Commander’s Dynamic System Device.

  But since Baronessa Fedor’s sudden and unvarnished announcement to the summit that the Post-Species were mobilising mass weapons, neither had spoken a word.

  Hob broke silence first. ‘Only one place this ship’ll be going now, Tekkie, and that’s to war.’ Alarms started up, as if to lend weight to his words. ‘I be thinking that you’d best get off now ‘less you wanna be flying inta a dogfight with the Extros. Catch a civilian ride; there’s enough of them here. Best to hurry though. Things’ll get messy, I warrant.’

  Tekton nodded, thinking Hob made good sense.

  ‘Yes. Best. What ships are available? And how do I get to them?’

  Hob took a step closer to Lasper Farr’s com-sole and ran gnarled but surprisingly deft fingers down the pad, calling up reports. Images of the shift sphere formed in the air between them. The rings glittered with activity as ship icons changed positions and jostled for queue ranking.

  ‘Ship’s moud says there’s around three thousand civvies in-system,’ said Hob, reading from the display. Not sure how much longer, though. Dowl res station in the Leah system’s been reported as open agin. Couldna’ be a good sign. Not if them Extros are there like she said.’

  The Baronessa had told the summit that a primitive species, the Saqr, had invaded the planet Araldis and the Dowl station. Now she feared a huge Post-Species force had based itself in the same place—her home world.

  Mira Fedor. Such an unimposing figure to be delivering such profound news, thought Tekton. His abdomen tightened with apprehension. Though his academic life had been coloured with devious and sometimes murky politics and the pursuit of personal aspirations, he had never suffered physical threat.

  Since venturing into the wider worlds, though, as part of his endeavour to construct an edifice that would impress the Sole Entity back on Belle-Monde, his life had taken a sinister and terrifying turn.

  Not quite recovered from Lasper Farr’s failed attempt to murder him on the planet Edo, he’d been coerced into hiding aboard the same lunatic’s ship as the only way to escape.

  Now, it seemed, he’d found himself in the last place

  in the galaxy he could wish to be. If the Dowl shift station had reactivated, and Mira Fedor was truthful in her pronouncements, it could mean only one thing: the Post-Species were preparing to invade the OLOSS worlds. And Intel station—where he was now berthed—with its concentration of OLOSS leaders and dignitaries, was a most plump and juicy target.

  A trap! yelped Tekton’s free-mind. This whole summit meeting was designed to bring OLOSS leaders into one place. It could be the Post-Species’ first target.

  After a few extra moments of consideration, his logic-mind was in complete agreement. Dastardly simple and effective.

  ‘They’re coming here,’ Tekton told Hob. ‘The Extros are coming here first.’

  Hob stared at him unhappily. The sirens had settled into a high-alert pattern. ‘I’m thinkin’ you be right, Tekkie,’ said the old Stain Wars veteran. ‘I gotta get to the bridge.’

  Tekton gave Hob’s shoulder a light squeeze. He was not inclined to friendly physical displays, but the occasion seemed to call for it. Though their acquaintance had been brief, the grubby pilot genius had saved his life and extended him compassion and kindness. Tekton had never needed those things before; never cared for them nor offered them to others. The halls of the Tadao Ando studium and the corridors of the Belle-Monde pseudo-world had not been places for such things.

  To say that the scales of selfishness had fallen from Tekton’s eyes was perhaps overly dramatic, but his perspective had altered, he allowed, on some counts.

  And now he wanted an opportunity to explore his newfound compassion, see how it affected his decisionmaking and the outcomes of events in his life.

  These arrogant and infuriating Extros, who were planning to annihilate every sentient species in Orion, did not serve his new frame of reference at all.

  ‘Lead on, good fellow. Show me the way off this ship,’ he said, gently pushing Hob out of the cabin door. ‘But just let me pee first. I’ll be but a step behind you.’

  The pilot nodded and stepped outside.

  In a trice Tekton had snapped up the small black box on Lasper Farr’s com-sole and stuffed it inside the seal of his nanosuit. Sammy would be furious to loose her spare combat gear, but there was no time for bargains or explanations. The suit adjusted around the DSD, leaving only the faintest telltale bulge over his belly.

  Let’s see how Lasper Farr goes without his Dynamic System Device, thought Tekton. And let’s see what I can do with it.

  He hurried out of the door to join Hob. They moved quickly along the corridor to the lifts.

  ‘Ship’ll be in lockdown soon. You c’n use the Commander’s uplift to get down ta cargo. Should be able ta still get out through the hold. They’ll be loadin’. In that
suit they’ll think you’re Sammy. Shouldn’a be too many questions. Jus’ look like you know where you’re going. Good luck, Tekkie. We’re gonna need it—all of us.’

  Hob used his ident to open the door to the private lift and ushered Tekton in. Then the door slid across, and Hob’s battered old face was gone.

  A ridiculous pang of loss stung Tekton as the lift plummeted to the cargo area of the ship. He might never see the old fellow again, depending how things panned out.

  For Crux sakes, suck it up, free-mind barked with passionate concern. We’ve got to get out of here. No time for blubbing.

  Concentrate, proffered logic-mind more moderately.

  With his Sole-altered minds badgering him, he had no time to dwell on loss. The doors at the other end opened, and he stepped into the ship’s large and gloomy cargo bay. No one took any notice of him; automatons and crew hastened around the hold, shifting and securing payload.

  Tekton slipped into a gap between crates and crouched down, Sammy’s suit making slight wheezing noises with his movements. The loading ramp was still open, but not for much longer, he guessed. He must leave now or face being stuck on Lasper Farr’s ship.

  That realisation brought an unfamiliar surge of adrenaline-fuelled determination, and Tekton ran with suit-enhanced speed towards the ramp. One of the crewmen saw him and shouted. The ramp light flashed its closing sequence, and the connecting section began to retract.

  Heart pounding painfully, legs burning with the effort, Tekton sprinted up the inclining ramp and leapt the distance to the Intel loading facility. He landed heavily, jarring his legs and falling forward onto his hands and knees.

  He looked back. Relief lessened the pain. The ramp was almost closed now, and the disorder out on the docks meant that no one would chase him.

  Disorder? More like an apocalypse! Free-mind was aghast.

  Like an anthill that’s been kicked over, thought Tekton. Scramble and scurry.