Of Fire and Night

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “The systems are intact, Dr. Swendsen,” one of the men said, scratching a bushy eyebrow. “The ship’s energy source is charged, as far as we can tell.”

  The other tech, a frizzy-haired man with pale skin, grinned like an exuberant child. “Right! There seems to be no reason why we can’t work the derelict, but we haven’t figured out how yet.”

  “We’ll crack the mystery—count on it. I’m still studying the lab notes left behind by that Roamer engineer. Lots of good stuff.” He would have liked to meet Kotto Okiah. Maybe later, once the Roamer difficulties were straightened out. “A very interesting character—brilliant, though a bit disorganized. He wrote down random observations, but never got around to summarizing and extrapolating. Still, he achieved quite a lot, considering he was just one man.”

  He mumbled encouragement to the techs, then moved toward the center. Did hydrogues walk, or fly, or flow? Swendsen stopped a young woman with hair that fell to her waist, though she kept it tied out of her way. Rosamaria Nogales. Dr. Nogales. “Any report from the biologists yet? Can they confirm that the residue we found was a dead hydrogue?”

  The puddle of metallic paste was soft, gelatinous, pliable, and materially unlike anything Swendsen had ever seen. In his notes, Kotto Okiah had postulated that the motionless ooze was one of the deep-core aliens. Swendsen had the same suspicions.

  Rosamaria’s deep brown eyes were bloodshot; apparently, Swendsen wasn’t the only one getting too little sleep. “By breaking down the material into constituent elements, they determined it isn’t organic. The structure—I hesitate to call it ‘tissue’—is composed of metallic forms of lightweight gases, which never should have stayed in that state under normal atmospheric conditions.”

  “Are you saying that what we found was air shocked into a flexible yet crystalline state that somehow retained its molecular structure?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t say that. The biochemists did.”

  “Well, then who are we to contradict them?”

  He continued like a doctor on his rounds. Understanding how the hydrogue drive functioned might lead to amazing adaptations for EDF ships—new weapons, new defenses. So many possibilities, and he wanted to do everything, but he was already wearing too many hats. Swendsen was still ostensibly in charge of the Hansa’s compy production facility not far from the Palace District. Fortunately, only a few humans were needed to monitor the automated manufacturing lines; thus, Swendsen was free to spend his time and mental energy here.

  He arrived at the most intriguing part of the alien vessel, a flat trapezoidal wall panel that resembled one of the Klikiss transportals. The hydrogues and the original Klikiss, somehow, impossibly, used identical transportation systems.

  With a pang, he wished Chief Scientist Howard Palawu could be here to help him. He and Swendsen had worked together to dismantle a volunteer Klikiss robot, then used what they’d learned to modify the Hansa’s compy models. The resulting Soldier compies were far superior to other models. As a reward for excellent work, Chairman Wenceslas had sent Palawu to study the Klikiss transportals—and Palawu had disappeared through an ancient doorway, just as Margaret Colicos had done. No one had seen him since.

  Now his main transportal engineer was a dusky-skinned young woman named Sofia Aladdia, who’d been transferred from Rheindic Co. At the moment, she sat staring at the crystalline wall, intently studying the symbols. “I’ve looked at all of Dr. Palawu’s records. He understood transportals better than any of us.”

  “Would he have understood this one?”

  She shrugged. “I think he would have concluded that the hydrogues used transportal technology to travel from gas giant to gas giant, from core to core. Maybe understanding it is only a matter of redefining coordinates.”

  “That would explain why we never saw drogue ships flying between planets until recently.” If the Hansa had known an alien race lived inside gas giants, they would never have used the Klikiss Torch.

  If his team could just make a breakthrough or two, Swendsen was sure all the pieces would fit neatly together. The EDF was waiting for anything he could announce.

  16

  ROSSIA

  The Grid 5 battle group—a flagship Juggernaut and eleven escort Mantas—patrolled the starry wilderness. On the bridge of the Eldorado, Rossia touched his treeling, shifting uncomfortably in the polymer chair. The green priest was supposed to remain at his station for another several hours, in case Admiral Kostas Eolus should need his services for telink communication. He longed for the treetops of Theroc, despite the dangerous flying predators up there.

  Rossia was one of the handful of original volunteers who’d joined the rigid structure of the military. He limped because of his scarred leg, his large eyes bulged as if he held his breath too often, and he talked to himself. But green priests were rare enough in the EDF that eccentric behavior was tolerated.

  Reassigned from his old position with Admiral Willis, Rossia now served as a communications link for gruff Eolus. The Grid 5 admiral had curly black hair, heavy brows, and a strong chin with deep lines around his mouth. Eolus had never learned how to speak in a quiet voice. With the Admiral watching over his bridge like a wyvern in search of a tender meal, Rossia bent to his duties.

  A flurry of messages and concerns caught his attention when he sent his mind out through telink. Something was happening out there. He sensed a deeply troubling flood from other green priests, primarily comrades who served aboard EDF ships. The most urgent message came from Clydia aboard Admiral Stromo’s Manta, which was currently searching for the rammers at Qronha 3. Through the worldforest mind, Rossia could hear her thoughts, see through her eyes, and experience her surroundings. After he had received her shocking news, his discomfort on the hard chair disappeared:

  Clydia had seen Soldier compies murder two crewmembers on Stromo’s bridge. Now she caressed her treeling, both to reassure the plant and to take guidance from the worldtree mind. No one knew how serious the situation might be. Clydia slipped away and headed for her quarters. Perhaps in that sanctuary, she could dim the lights and sit with her treeling, to recover her peace by communing with the worldforest. Alarms thrummed through the Manta.

  As she hurried along, the corridor intercom bubbled with a stew of brusque reports and anxious voices. “Admiral, something’s wrong with the compies. They won’t obey standard—”

  “I already ordered you to shut them down!”

  She heard a strange sound—a muffled scream?—then thumps, a scuffle, a shot before the intercom was cut off. Clydia could smell death and shock in the air. Three uniformed crewmen ran past her, obviously frightened. She pressed herself against the wall so as not to get in their way.

  From adjacent passages and open hatches came a confusing barrage of echoes—shouts, the clatter of metal, an explosion. Clydia flinched at the crackle of twitcher beams, but she couldn’t tell which direction the noises had come from. She moved faster, hounded by ricochets of sound. Her potted treeling felt heavy in her arms, but she held it tightly. It was her only link to the green priests, to the worldforest. They all had to know what was going on. . . .

  Aboard the Eldorado, Rossia jerked upright, astonished and at a loss for words. He blinked furiously, trying to focus his thoughts and his eyes.

  Admiral Eolus saw him jump. “What got you, green priest? Does your tree have a biting bug?”

  Rossia stared at his treeling in disbelief. “Something terrible is happening. Soldier compies are attacking the crew aboard one of the EDF Mantas, I think.”

  Eolus let out a gruff laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “No . . . I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all. Let me—” He plunged his thoughts back into telink, seeing through Clydia’s eyes again, watching her run barefoot through the ship’s corridors.

  He heard Admiral Stromo’s voice bellow over the intercom. “The damned compies know we’re on to them. I want every crewman armed. Ship security, distribute twitchers to all perso
nnel! Bring out the big guns, if we have any.”

  The responding voice was raspy, as if the woman had shouted too much in the past hour. “Admiral, the compies have taken over the armory vaults. They killed six of my men!”

  Stromo sounded entirely befuddled. “But compies aren’t supposed to arm themselves!” As if to taunt him, the intercom flooded with a humming crackle of stun bursts, and the woman’s transmission changed to a rush of static.

  More weapons fire came from ahead of Clydia. Five EDF soldiers rounded a corner in full retreat, running backward and shouting. Their uniforms were torn, as if they had just lost a fistfight with an automated grain harvester. They shot twitchers down the corridor, but the energy bursts looked weak, as if the charge packs were nearly depleted. “Pull back!”

  Clydia heard evenly rhythmic footsteps coming closer, then Soldier compies fell upon the five crewmen. She ducked down a side corridor and saw the closed doors of a lift at the end of the hall. She had to get to another deck! Screams and sounds of fighting came from behind her as she ran. She could get to her quarters, lock her door, and wait for the Admiral and his fighting men to get the compies under control. It would be only a matter of time.

  The treeling grew heavier with every step she took. Her arms ached as she raced to the elevator. Before she could touch the controls, the doors whisked open, and two burly Soldier compies marched out. Skidding to a stop, Clydia saw the glowing optical sensors target her. The compies marched forward.

  She turned back in the direction she had come, but the EDF crewmen had been cornered out there. A third group of Soldier compies boxed her in from the main passageway. In the hall’s bright light she saw wet reflections of spray patterns on their synthetic skin. The facsimile hands were red.

  Clydia pressed her back against the metal wall and clutched the treeling to her chest. From three directions, compies converged on her. Her fingers gripped the slender gold-scaled trunk as she broadcast everything that was happening. Across the Spiral Arm, every green priest would know what was taking place aboard this ship.

  But none of them could help her. Rossia couldn’t help her. He could only hear and see and experience every second of it.

  The closest compy seized the potted treeling. Clydia tried to twist away, but the robot knocked it to the floor, smashing the pot. Breaking the link.

  With a gasp, Rossia snatched his hands from his own treeling, as if he’d been burned. The images had flown at him like a swarm of stinging insects, and then dwindled to nothing.

  All the bridge crew stared at him. Rossia realized that the Admiral had been bellowing for answers. “A disaster,” he said. “A real disaster!”

  Eolus looked ready to leap out of his seat. “What disaster? Explain!”

  “The Soldier compies are going berserk on Admiral Stromo’s Manta. I saw it myself through telink. I watched the compies attack. They—” His breath hitched, and he forced himself to calm down and summarize what he had seen, though the images continued to swirl around him like blowing leaves. A secondary hum of questions and reports from other green priests now yammered through telink. “The compies just destroyed her treeling. I felt the pain.” As an afterthought, he added, “I think Clydia’s dead, too.”

  At first, the Eldorado’s bridge crew looked at each other, perplexed, but their mood swiftly turned to alarm. Eolus looked at the bug-eyed green priest as if he had made a joke in poor taste. He let out a loud snort. “They’re compies, for God’s sake. Compies can’t think for themselves.”

  Ignoring them, Rossia concentrated on the treeling again. When he looked up, he felt even more dazed than before. “I’ve received reports from green priests aboard four other EDF ships. Soldier compies are running amok. Everywhere! It’s a coordinated rebellion.”

  Eolus clenched his hands into fists. “I will get to the bottom of this bullcrap.” He turned to the comm officer, raising his voice to thunder level. “Give me all-ship intercom. Immediate reports! Has anyone seen—”

  Before the Admiral could complete his sentence, a staccato of alarms went off. Intercom channels filled with shouted accounts of strange behavior, compies suddenly going rogue, as if they were all on some sort of timer. Rossia let out a low moan, already knowing what must be happening.

  Eolus got to his feet. “Green priest! You sure about this?”

  Rossia nodded, yanking his fingertips away from the nightmarish images in telink. “Yes. Absolutely, yes. They’re slaughtering crews on grid after grid. I think most of the green priests are already dead. Oh, I’ve never seen so much blood. The compies are just attacking and attacking.”

  Eolus whirled to the comm officer. “Word from our ships?”

  “Every Manta reports the same thing, Admiral! We’re losing contact—”

  “Immediate crackdown, by God! No time to lose.”

  Rossia did not know his new commander well, but he was sure that this bulldozer of a man would not back away from a fight. Eolus hammered his big-knuckled fist down on the all-ship intercom again. “This is an emergency, and I expect everybody to act instantly. Stop the compies. Don’t bother trying to deactivate—just blast them into pieces. Many, many pieces.”

  Since hand weapons were useless for fighting hydrogues, the Eldorado carried only enough twitchers to subdue brawling crewmen or quash an attempted mutiny. Even if sufficient weapons had been available, Rossia wouldn’t have known how to fire one.

  Only one compy was stationed on the Juggernaut’s bridge. When it began to move erratically, Eolus yelled, “Sergeant Briggs, use your twitcher!”

  The security chief was already responding. He pulled his stun weapon and fired a scrambling blast. The compy jittered and crashed forward, its arms outstretched as if reaching for bones to break or windpipes to crush.

  Rossia held on to the treeling’s ornate pot, trying to shield it. The bridge crew stared at each other in skittish shock.

  The comm officer looked sick, her skin pale and gray. “Admiral, two of the Mantas don’t respond! I got a garbled signal that sounded like screams and fighting, then static.”

  Eolus’s swarthy face turned ruddy. “Our ships are being hijacked!” As if to prove his fears, the two silenced Mantas changed course and began to withdraw from the battle group.

  The Admiral scrambled with his controls, scrolled down the numbers, then looked up in dismay that gave way to frustrated anger. “Dammit! We just got out of drydock and refit, and they didn’t even give me the right guillotine codes! Stupid upgrades—never work the way they’re supposed to.” Eolus stalked around the bridge and hit the intercom again. “Consider every Soldier compy an enemy. Get rid of them before they get rid of us. Do something interesting for your service records.” He shouted to the security chief, who was unlocking a small sealed vault. “Sergeant Briggs, you are responsible for protecting my bridge. No matter what, do not let compies take control of this Juggernaut.”

  Briggs withdrew more twitchers, giving one to the Admiral and distributing the others to a pair of crewmen he considered competent, while he kept a projectile weapon for himself. “Twitchers aren’t necessarily the best bet against Soldier compies, sir. Those robots are hardened against attack.”

  “Lucky us. Ideas?”

  “Not off the top of my head, sir.”

  The comm officer blurted, “We’ve got a flood of transmissions, Admiral! Difficult to process everything. The compies are going renegade simultaneously, deck after deck. They’re overwhelming our crew!” Each of the rebellious compies could easily take out five or six human soldiers before being brought down. There weren’t enough people, or weapons, on board to stand against this uprising if it continued to grow.

  “Casualties?” Eolus said.

  “Officially unknown . . . but I can tell it’s a lot.”

  Rossia frantically sent reports through telink so everyone else would know what was happening aboard the Eldorado. “Nahton is hurrying to inform King Peter in the Whisper Palace. Maybe they will send reinforcements
in time.”

  “They can’t do much but pray for us,” Eolus growled. “Don’t expect outside help.”

  Three Soldier compies charged down the corridor toward the Eldorado’s bridge, leaping like mechanical hyenas. Sergeant Briggs stood his ground at the access door to the bridge, shooting his projectile weapon down the hall. The slugs slammed into the oncoming compies, leaving craters in their torso armor; momentum knocked them backward. Rossia flinched at the noise.

  “Mister Briggs, are you ready to seal the bulkhead doors?” Eolus bellowed.

  “As soon as I shoot just a couple more, Admiral.” Six more compies rushed in from other corridors. Briggs fired again and again, calling for reinforcements.

  “Admiral, look!” The navigator pointed toward the screen as two more escort Mantas flew off to join the first stolen pair.

  Eolus ground his teeth together so hard that the muscles in his jaw stood out like cables. He glared out into the corridor where Briggs and his comrades continued to fire at the oncoming compies, then loosed an avalanche of booming words. “Damned robots aren’t getting my ship!”

  17

  KING PETER

  Another pointless social ceremony. Wearing uncomfortable regal attire, King Peter attended an innocuous banquet to present service medals to local Palace District businessmen. Basil Wenceslas sat at the reception table, dapper in his perfectly cut business suit. His expression was cool, his gray eyes placid except for when Peter met his gaze. Didn’t the Chairman have anything better to do with his time? Or is he that worried about me?

  This was a far cry from rallying the human race to stand firm against the hydrogues, but at least the Chairman hadn’t ordered Peter to deliver incendiary lies about the Roamers. Not today. Basil seemed to feel that if he was tough and unyielding, then everyone would bow to his instructions. But the Chairman’s hard-line stance against the clans had backfired, and even his staunch supporters realized that their “victory” of destroying Rendezvous was pointless. The Roamers were scattered, and the Hansa still had no supplier of stardrive fuel.