City of Ruins - [Diving Universe 02]

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Zoom in on that weapon,” Coop said to Anita. “See if we can figure out exactly what it is and does.”

  “I don’t blame her for drawing it,” Perkins said. “She doesn’t know—”

  “I don’t blame her either, Lieutenant,” Coop said. “Let’s just watch and figure out what they’re going to do.”

  “Can’t I suit up?” Perkins asked.

  He glanced at her. She had turned toward him, her back straight, her eyes glistening. She wanted to go into the repair room.

  And she was right; she was the one who should go out there. He had said first-contact situation, which meant the linguists were in the main team, and Mae, his best linguist, wasn’t on rotation.

  “Yes,” he said to Perkins. “I want you in your dress uniform.”

  “Sir?” She sounded surprised.

  “And no weapons,” he said.

  “But they have them,” she said.

  “And I would too in this circumstance, if I were them. But we have the upper hand here. So let’s use it.” He turned his attention back to the screen.

  All seven had come into the repair room, and they were using a flanking maneuver he hadn’t seen since military training. Half of the woman’s team wore the same kind of mask she did. The rest still had on their helmets, which had to limit visibility.

  They all carried those laser pistols, and the hands of at least three of the seven shook as they clutched the grip.

  Great. Amateurs. Frightened amateurs.

  This could get dangerous.

  He almost rescinded the order to Perkins, thinking he didn’t want his people in the middle of a group of scared amateurs. Then he changed his mind. The amateurs would be scared no matter what, and then, if his people didn’t appear, they’d get emboldened.

  He needed to retain this upper hand.

  “Dix,” Coop said, “I need Rossetti up here now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dix said.

  “You’re sending them out immediately?” Yash asked.

  Perkins shot her an almost angry glance, then hurried off the bridge, as her absence would prevent him from changing his mind.

  “No,” Coop said. “I’m going to give the outsiders an hour. They need to regroup, think a bit, calm down. We surprised them. The last thing we should do is surprise them again.”

  “I think you should observe more,” Yash said.

  “Duly noted,” Coop said, closing debate. “What are those weapons, Anita?”

  “Laser pistols,” she said. “They have the right power signature, but they’re pretty unwieldy. I wouldn’t want to fire one.”

  “I assume they’ll do a lot of damage if they hit someone?” he asked.

  “Can’t tell without actually test-firing one. But that’s a safe assumption.”

  He watched the outsiders, slowly exploring the room, clearly responding to commands. The woman kept glancing at one of the screens; it seemed to make her nervous.

  They all made Coop nervous. The screens were all tied to ships within the sector, and showed what the ships saw. But, logically, there shouldn’t be any ships in the sector. They should have left decades ago with the Fleet.

  The visual that disturbed him the most was the one the woman kept glancing at-—three screens down, it looked as if he were looking at some kind of station, one he didn’t recognize.

  Questions, questions, and more questions.

  He hoped that once his people talked to the outsiders, he would finally start getting answers.

  * * * *

  FORTY-NINE

  I

  know we’re being watched. I can feel it, even if I can’t see it. I’ve had the feeling from the beginning that we weren’t alone, and now I have confirmation of it.

  Yet there’s no one visible in this gigantic room.

  “Did we interrupt them?” Seager asks, her voice shaking. “Are they hiding from us?”

  “Have you looked at that ship?” Quinte says. “Do you know how many people can be in that thing?”

  The best guess of our own tech people is that the average Dignity Vessel held at least one hundred people, and possibly as many as a thousand. It depended on how many were needed to run the various ship’s systems, and how many people got crammed into the various rooms.

  I have always doubted the thousand number. The rooms on the partially intact Dignity Vessels we found looked more like suites or apartments than single bunks. But who knew how these ships were used.

  And really, we don’t know what they were used for.

  What they are used for.

  I look up at the side, exactly where the cockpit is on every single Dignity Vessel I’ve encountered. I stand in front of it for a long time, just to make sure that they’re all watching me.

  And then I slowly, carefully, ostentatiously, holster my laser pistol.

  “Boss! Don’t!” Rea says. “We have no idea if they’re hostile!”

  “If they’re hostile, they would have lain in wait for us,” I say. “They observed us the last two times we were here. This time, they would have sent out a small crew, and blasted us away.”

  At least that is what I would have done. If I felt threatened by people coming near my ship, and I thought those people were dangerous, I’d attack first and ask questions later.

  I extend my hands, showing that they’re empty.

  Come and see me, I’m trying to say. We’re harmless. Let’s talk.

  But the door remains closed.

  “Put your weapons away,” I say to my team.

  “I don’t want to,” Rea says.

  “I don’t think it’s wise,” Kersting says.

  “Can’t some of us keep them?” Seager asks.

  That seems the most sensible. A few weapons, but not a bunch. The problem is that I doubt anyone except me and Rea have experience with weapons, and I’m not really sure about Rea.

  I’m more worried about an accidental discharge than I am about the people on that Dignity Vessel.

  “How about this?” I say, willing to compromise with my team. “Seager, Quinte, Kersting, lower your weapons. Point them at the floor. If something goes wrong, raise them and use them. But wait until my signal.”

  “What if something happens to you?” Quinte asks.

  “I think that would substitute for a signal, don’t you?” I can’t help the sarcasm. I miss my real team. I miss Mikk’s quick thinking and Roderick’s impulsive piloting skills. I miss Tamaz’s muscle. I miss their loyalty and their ability to anticipate what I’m about to do.

  “The rest of you,” I say, after I manage to regain control of my voice again, “holster your weapons.”

  I turn toward them. Rea clutches his like a lifeline.

  “Now,” I say, wondering how I’ll enforce this if they don’t listen.

  But they do. Rea makes a show of holstering his. DeVries puts his away as if the grip has already burned him. Al-Nasir carefully holsters his as if he thinks it’ll go off if he hits it wrong.

  I sigh. I’m stuck in the strangest, possibly the most dangerous, experience I’ve had since some of us went after the Empire’s guards, and this time, I have a bunch of tourists who can’t think clearly if their life depended on it.

  And of course, their lives do depend on it.

  As does mine.

  “Now what?” Rea asks.

  “Now,” I say, “we wait.”

  * * * *

  FIFTY

  M

  y God,” Dix said. “They’re putting their weapons away.”

  Coop looked up from his consultation with Rossetti. She was in full dress uniform as well, just like he had requested, but she would be putting an environmental suit over it for added protection. The dress uniform was for her and not the outsiders. It was to remind her—and her entire team—that they were in a diplomatic situation, not a military one.

  Apparently the outsiders thought they weren’t in a military situation, either —or at least the woman did. She held her hands out, showi
ng that they were empty.

  That fabric mask she wore over her mouth and nose moved slightly—she was talking to her people. Three of them had holstered their weapons, and the other three had turned the muzzles downward, although the heavyset man would probably shoot his own foot if the weapon discharged.

  Amateurs.

  That detail still disturbed Coop.

  Still, he couldn’t prevent a small smile. He and the woman were communicating already.

  She wanted him to know that her people were not a threat. She wanted a dialogue. But she also wanted him to know that she would shoot if shot at.

  “Get out there,” he said to Rossetti.

  “I had told my team we had another half an hour,” she said.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “They’re ready for us now. Get out there as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded and left the bridge.

  “This isn’t some kind of ploy, is it?” Yash asked, looking at the outsiders

  “What kind of ploy would that be?” Coop asked. “We’re the ones who notified them we were here. They didn’t seem too concerned about us before today.

  “They didn’t know we were here before today,” Yash said.

  “We’ll be careful,” Coop said.

  “I hope so,” Yash said. “I really do.”

  * * * *

  FIFTY-ONE

  T

  he ship’s door opens. It rises upward, and a small staircase eases out, sliding its way to the floor. I’ve seen the doors open like that on Dignity Vessels we’ve found, but I’ve never seen the staircase. It makes my breath catch again. The magic and mystery of the Dignity Vessels. I’m so overwhelmed, I have to remind myself to remain calm.

  A woman emerges. She holds herself rigidly. She’s wearing an environmental suit without a helmet, but an environmental suit unlike any I’ve ever seen. It’s more like a membrane than a suit, and beneath it, I can see a black uniform—or what I’m imagining to be a black uniform.

  Her gaze meets mine, and she holds it as she comes down those stairs. She’s already figured out that I’m in charge, and she’s coming directly for me.

  “Boss,” Rea says, sounding nervous.

  I signal him to remain quiet with my right hand. In fact, I hope my entire team got that signal. I want to be the one doing the talking here. I should have told them that.

  Behind the woman comes an entire group of people. Men, women of varying heights and appearances. Some are spacer thin, but some aren’t. Some look like they were raised in real gravity.

  I wonder how that’s possible, given what I’ve heard about Dignity Vessels. Then I have to remind myself: everything I’ve heard might be wrong.

  The group lines up in front of us, two deep, with the woman who came first only a few meters from me. She’s taller, and looks stronger. She’s also younger. Her eyes are dark brown, her chin raised slightly.

  Her posture is military.

  Finally, a woman emerges not wearing an environmental suit. She’s wearing a black uniform with gold decorations down the sleeves and along the shoulders. Her hair is red, her skin unlined, her bones large and strong from being raised in gravity.

  The door closes behind her. She’s the one who walks up to me.

  She nods and says something completely incomprehensible.

  I’ve done this a few times before, usually on a space station, usually in a bar where someone else can identify the language and save me from myself.

  But I’m here alone with my team, and all of my people who can understand various languages don’t have the damn genetic marker.

  “I’m the boss of this crew,” I say. “We’re explorers. We didn’t expect to find your ship. Is this your base?”

  The woman tilts her head slightly, and I can tell from the expression in her eyes that she doesn’t understand me any more than I understand her.

  She nods at me, holds up a band as if to say, Let’s try this again, then taps herself. She makes four distinct sounds.

  Then she points to me.

  I don’t say anything, not yet.

  She repeats the gesture and the sounds.

  Her name and/or her rank. Her identification, at any rate.

  I tap myself. “Boss.”

  She repeats that. Then taps herself a third time, and repeats the four sounds.

  I say them. She smiles. Communication of a sort.

  She glances at the rest of my team, then says something very slowly. I don’t understand a word of it, but I make sure I’m recording it all. Maybe someone back at the hotel will understand.

  I shrug, and feel someone near my side.

  Al-Nasir has joined us. I glance at his hands, worried about his laser pistol. It remains in its holster.

  “I think I understand them, Boss,” he says.

  How can he, when I don’t?

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I had fifteen years of linguistics in school,” he says. “We went backward, looking at the way Standard evolved. I think she’s speaking a variation of it.”

  “Give it a shot,” I say.

  She’s watching us closely, as if she’s trying to understand.

  He nods at her, then extends his hand toward her and repeats those four syllables.

  She nods.

  Then he taps himself and says, “Fahd Al-Nasir.”

  She repeats his name. Then she says very clearly, “Boss,” and I jump.

  “Yes,” I say.

  She looks at me sharply. She seems to understand yes.

  “Yes?” she repeats, but her emphasis is odd.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Good,” Al-Nasir says, but he says it oddly, almost unrecognizably. “You speak Standard.”

  His inflection is weird.

  She frowns at him and says something in return.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “You’ll have to translate for me,” I say.

  “I think she said, You’re speaking Standard?”

  “You think?” I ask.

  “I think,” he says, looking at me.

  She’s watching closely.

  Al-Nasir taps himself again. “I am Fahd Al-Nasir.” Then he puts his hand on my arm. “And she is my boss.”

  The woman’s eyes light up. “Boss,” she says just as clearly. “Title?”

  At least, I think that’s what she says. Al-Nasir seems to understand it that way, too.

  “Yes,” he says, and gives me a sideways glance. He’s not going to explain that it’s also what everyone calls me. Probably too confusing anyway.

  He looks at her, then at the ship. “Are you the boss?”

  “No,” she says.

  Even I understand that. So there’s someone else in charge.

  “May we speak to your boss?” Al-Nasir asks.

  She says something in response. Al-Nasir repeats the question. She slows down what she says. At least, I think it’s the same thing she said. I don’t have a facility with language. Clearly, Al-Nasir does.

  He repeats the question a third time, and this time she says, simply, “No.”

  My heart sinks. “Do they want us to leave?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says testily. “I can barely understand her as it is.”

  “Try this,” I say. “Tell her we’re recording the conversation. Tell her that we’ll find someone to translate her message if she just repeats it a few times.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, “with my magical ability to speak a variation of Standard I’ve never heard before.”

  She’s looking at us.

  I sigh. I hold up my hands and say, “We would like to figure out a way to communicate. Does anyone on your ship speak Standard?”

  She answers me. Al-Nasir says softly, “She says she is speaking Standard.”

  “Let me try again,” I say to her, ignoring Al-Nasir. “Does anyone on the ship speak the version of Standard that I know?”