by GARY DARBY
Tor’al’s lips curved in a deep frown. “We made another mistake in that it wasn’t until recently that we discovered that we had taken your communicators away from you. If we had allowed you to keep your devices, I suspect that some of the tragedy that both your clansmen and mine experienced would not have occurred.”
“Wait,” Dason said exclaimed, bolting upright. “Are you saying that my people have their communicators back, that I can speak with them?”
“Perhaps,” Tor’al rumbled, “if your speech devices are better than ours. I have had no contact with my Sha’anay warriors for some time. We have seen this before, it is Mongan doing.”
Dason quickly tapped on his comms and tried to raise anyone from the Star Scout team, but there was no reply. He tried for several minutes but to no avail. “I guess we’re in the same boat,” he sadly muttered, “I can’t raise anyone either.”
He turned to Tor’al to say, “So, when you were holding my clansmen in the forest, your leader was waiting for instructions on what to do?”
“Yes,” Tor’al answered. “It is beyond rare to capture a Mongan triad, and we are not savages to be content with executing our enemy. Na’di sent runners to try to communicate with an Elder, such as myself, but he was unsuccessful.
“His options were few. He was some distance from our downed cruiser, he had no way of knowing if more Mongans were on the planet, and he had little in the way of supplies.
“He decided to move to a more defensible place and wait for instructions. That’s when you found them.”
The alien’s rumbling translated into small chuckles. “Your warriors are splendid. They passed by our sentries completely undetected.
“Na’di is very chastened. In time, if this turns out well, it will make for much humor at his expense at day’s end fire. If it does not, then it will not matter, I suppose.
“When you attacked, we didn’t fight back in earnest because we were afraid of hitting you and your companions. Our mission was to help, not hurt. Our hesitation cost us the three Mongans. Now they are free.”
Dason shook his head and said, “No, they’re not.”
The alien looked at him with a questioning expression. In a rapid voice, Dason described the events of the last several days, the loss of the Star Scouts and the three Mongans.
Tor’al leaned forward and demanded, “You are sure? You saw the evil ones die with your own eyes?”
Dason bit hard on his lip and stared down at the ground. “With my own eyes,” he replied in a soft voice, the memories of his comrades’ deaths sharp and painful in his mind.
The alien leaned back against the rock wall. His voice took on a deep bass rumble. “The loss of your friends is great. They died a warrior’s death. Honor their memory. Sing songs of praise on their Remembrance Day.
“It would have been a great feat to bring a triad back to our clan Elders and scientists, but since that is not to be, it is very, very good that they died. They are without honor. There is no life in their bodies or minds.”
Tor’al gestured to a nearby dead wolfhound. “Uncover the fur from around its neck. What do you see?”
Puzzled, Dason stepped over to the closest animal and pushed back short, stiff hair near where its narrow head met muscled neck. His hand touched metal.
Digging deeper, he found a thin tubular collar around the beast. Attached to the collar was a tiny oblong device. He turned to Tor’al with a questioning expression.
The alien said, “The devil dogs are Mongan creations among others. We believe that through that device the Mongans are able, to some degree, to control the beast’s movements and actions.
“We have seen the dogs do the Mongan’s bidding. You are very lucky you made it this far. I have never seen anyone escape a pack once it is set loose for the hunt.”
Gazing at Dason, Tor’al paused before saying thoughtfully, “Then again, perhaps you are not the quarry of a death hunt. Your wounds are hurtful but not as deep or severe as they could be.
“No, human Dason, I think perhaps, for you, the devils have a different purpose in mind.”
Dason’s head whirled. Too much had occurred in the last few days. He didn’t know what to think. In a somber mood, he asked, “Are you sure the wolves will come back?”
Tor’al nodded and replied, “Of a certainty. However, we have some time before they do. We hurt them badly.”
Gesturing at the rocks, he said, “This is an excellent place from which to fight, perhaps we can hold them off long enough for my warriors to find us before the hounds return.”
He shook his head. “We followed your group to a cave, but a cave-in caught several of us. I ordered Bor’an and the remaining warriors to stay and dig out our comrades while I scouted further on, thinking that you might find your way from the cave by another way.”
He held up his wrist to show an oval device. “But, as I said, my communicator is not working. The rockfall may have damaged it, but I think more likely the Mongans are blocking our transmissions. So, I do not know where my clansman are at this time. It was the devil dogs’ howls that led me here.”
Peering hopefully at Dason, he asked, “Perhaps your own warriors will find us?”
Dason’s silent response was answer enough for the alien to shrug and say, “Then again, perhaps not.”
Tor’al raised a hand toward a distant stand of tall birchlike trees. “But if you feel you must leave here, make for the trees, and climb.”
He chuckled while saying, “The hounds can do many things, but to climb trees is not one of them. You may be safe there, if you can reach the grove in time.”
Dason stared at Tor’al. The feelings of hostility and anger that he had felt before toward the large extraterrestrial had melted away. And from Tor’al there was no evil intent or malevolence. Whatever misgivings Dason had harbored regarding Tor'al had dissipated.
What’s more, he had no intentions whatsoever of deserting the Sha’anay Elder. He answered Tor’al in a grave voice, “No, it is not my people’s way to leave those who are hurt or who need help.”
Tor’al’s mouth moved in what Dason interpreted as a small smile of approval. “It is as I suspected. We have some things in common, human Dason.”
He stroked his chin fur again, gazing intently at Dason. “You are a warrior people, I think. After you attacked our camp, you and your companions led us a merry chase through the valley. And which of you led us into the ambush near the hills?”
“Uh, that was me,” Dason answered in an apologetic voice. “I’m sorry about that, I was trying to free several members of my team from rogue humans. I used your warriors to distract them while I rescued my teammates.”
Dason swallowed and said, “It was also me that caused the cave landslide. I’m truly sorry if any of your clansmen were hurt, or worse. I was only trying to protect my teammates.”
Tor’al grunted and said, “A cunning plan, Dason Thorne. No, neither seriously injured any of my warriors, but they were very much put out that they were not able to catch you and then you led them into a trap.”
Dason eyed Tor’al before saying, “After I led your warriors through the forest, I was able to free some of my teammates, but I believe that your clansmen may have captured some of them later.”
He recounted the climb to the plateau, finishing with, “Do you know what happened to them?”
Tor’al nodded. “Perhaps,” he answered. “I have not had contact with your clansmen, but I do know that my warriors found and returned some your kind to our damaged ship.”
“They did? How many and are they safe?” Dason asked.
Tor’al held up his six-fingered paw to close and open it twice. “Roughly that many. If there were more, I do not know of those. And yes, for now, they are safe.”
He paused before saying, “But if the Mongans attack again, then I am afraid that they will suffer the same fate as we.”
Dason was both crestfallen and elated—happy to hear that perhaps some of the Star
Scouts still lived, sad that Tor’al couldn’t tell him more. Still, it gave him a feeling of hope, and to his mind, hope had not been in great supply of late.
“Thank you, Tor’al,” he said in an appreciative voice. “Thank you for trying to help my people. I am very grateful.”
Tor’al bowed his head in response and asked, “Tell me more of your people, human Dason Thorne.”
“Well,” Dason began, “I and most of those of my kind on this planet are explorers. We belong to an organization that seeks to discover new worlds, new life. We were nearby on an exploration mission when we received the distress signal.”
“Ah,” Tor’al said, “then you did not know of the Mongans beforehand?”
“No,” Dason stated. “In fact, we never have, until now, met other sentient beings. You and the Mongans were our first contact with another spacefaring race.”
Dason grimaced while he said, “And we sure made a mess of it, too.”
Tor’al’s growl approached human laughter. “Yes, I can see where you might think that, but it was not entirely your fault. If we had been able to communicate with you, explain—”
“Yes, if only,” Dason replied in a soft, sad voice as recent, heartbreaking memories flooded over him.
He peered at Tor’al and said in a sincere tone, “I sincerely hope that your people will not be angry with us for what we did. We honestly didn’t know.”
Tor’al raised a quick hand to stop Dason. “There is no blame.”
He gave a shrug. “There were some who were angry at first that you attacked the camp and freed the Mongans. But reason prevailed when it was pointed out that, from your viewpoint, it appeared that we held you captive against your will.”
“And what about the ambush that I led you into?” Dason asked. “In all honesty, I’d be mad if that happened to me.”
Tor’al waved a hand. “I suspect that by now, your warriors have explained what happened and why.”
He looked at Dason and in a frank voice said, “For me, I do not consider you or your clan warriors an enemy of the Sha’anay.”
“Admittedly,” he offered, “both sides made mistakes, unfortunately, that is sometimes the nature of war.”
Dason let out an enormous sigh of relief at Tor’al’s statement and then asked, “This battle in space that you mentioned, between your ships and the Mongans, who won?”
Tor’al’s answer was a low growl. “Neither, and that is part of our quandary. Before the fight, another of our war cruisers joined the other in this system.
“A fleet of eight Mongan ships appeared, and a battle ensued. To meet eight of their warships is unheard of. Never have we seen more than two or three together at one time.”
In an exasperated voice, he continued, “We lost one cruiser, the other managed to escape, but it sustained substantial damage. Their numbers took us by surprise, caught us completely off guard.
“To have so many of their kind here can only mean that they are extremely interested in this planet. It must hold something of high value to them or something that they desperately need.
“We destroyed several of their ships, and they have withdrawn. Whether or not they will return, I do not know. But, once again, I and my Sha-warriors are left stranded until help can arrive as our wounded ship cannot chance an open fight in space nor be caught sitting on this planet.”
He let out a long rumble, like a human sigh. “When will help arrive? That I cannot answer. For now, we are on our own.”
“That is one thing,” Dason readily acknowledged, “that I am very familiar with.”
Then he asked, “You said that the Mongans seized our ship. What will the Mongans do with the humans that were onboard?”
Tor’al reflected on Dason’s question before saying, “That is hard to tell. It could be that they will transport them elsewhere as they have done to others they captured.”
“Transport?” Dason asked in a puzzled voice. “You mean they’re taking them somewhere else, like to another planet or ship?”
Tor’al peered intently at Dason before he said, “If you are saying to convey them on a Mongan ship from one point to another, yes, they can do that. But they also have the ability to disassemble organic matter, beam it some distance away, and reassemble without harm to the organism.
He shrugged. “They can do both but I have no way of knowing which they will do with your clansmen.”
Dason stared at Tor’al with his mouth parted wide. He closed his mouth and swallowed before saying, “You mean they can break down solid matter into a molecular or atomic form and reconstitute it back to its original form?”
Tor’al nodded. “I am not a scientist and have not the ability to explain it better, but yes, I believe it is as you say.”
Dason shook his head several times. Tor’al’s statement was the stuff of science fiction to be sure, but it would appear to be no longer pure fantasy. It took him several seconds before he could ask, “Do your scientists know how they do that?”
“No,” Tor’al replied. “We know they have the technology to do such a thing, but our scientists are at a loss to explain the process.”
Dason cleared his throat before asking, “So you think they transported my people to somewhere else—somewhere nearby on this planet?”
Tor’al spread his hands in a gesture that implied “possibly” before voicing, “However, we do not know the full capabilities of their apparatus. Perhaps your comrades are here, but I cannot say for a certainty. They may be on one of the Mongan ships that fled.”
Both stayed silent for some time before Dason asked, “What will they do with them? You said the Mongans are barbaric, will they kill them?”
The alien looked at Dason with sad eyes. “I do not know the answer. We do not recover former hostages often, and when we do, often their memories are such that they have little to offer.”
His eyes grew hard, angry. “The soulless ones disturb the minds of their captives in a manner that even our best physicians cannot heal. It is if they suck out their memories, their identities until they are but shells, having bodies but no minds.”
“That’s horrible,” Dason seethed. “More than horrible and beyond barbaric.”
Tor’al smiled, revealing his own set of canine-like teeth. “You are beginning to see who the Mongans truly are and to sound like a Sha’anay warrior, my human friend Dason Thorne.”
Seeing that Tor’al couldn’t offer much insight into the scouts’ treatment at the hands of the Mongans, Dason changed the subject. “You said that the Mongans are very interested in this planet. Do you know why, their purpose?”
Tor’al took a deep breath. “No. But they have fought us twice in this system. That alone tells me that this planet must be of great importance to them. Perhaps they are preparing to destroy this star and must first do something on this planet to bring that to pass.”
Dason felt overwhelmed and at a loss. This information needed to get back to the Imperium, but how? “We have a confederation of planets and a governing body,” he said, “have you tried to contact them, to warn them of this threat? Am I the only one who knows of this?”
Tor’al’s fingers played across a sword hilt before he said, “You may well be for I do not think others of your kind have been told.
“As to contacting your clan Elders, we have not always been received kindly. There have been—misunderstandings. Bloodshed. So we are very careful in our coming together with other races.
“There have been some that thought we brought the Mongans to them and gave us the blame. But that has never been the case.
“We are fighters and not always comfortable in diplomacy, treaties, or contracts. We travel the galaxy to find the Mongans, to fight—to die if need be, in honor of our lost home worlds. We are their eternal enemy. That is our way of life, our purpose—our very existence.”
Dason could feel the emotion, the passion in Tor’al’s words. Dason spoke in a pensive voice, afraid of the answer he might receive, �
��Are the Mongans headed to my people’s home worlds?”
Tor’al drew in a breath and considered Dason’s question before he said, “Human Dason, it is true the Mongans are in this space, and elsewhere.
“Nevertheless, if it is of any comfort to you, we can discern no pattern to their movements. One moment they will be in one sector of space, and then reappear halfway across the galaxy.
“They are like the Ishtar-cricket, hopping from one place to another without reason, it seems. We do not know what drives them from place to place.”
“Is there anything we can do to stop them?”
Tor’al was quick to reply. “The Mongans are flesh and blood as we are. They bear wounds—they die. They have strengths and weaknesses. They are a symbiotic race. They are born as three and always act as a triad—three linked as one.”
“Three linked as one . . .” Dason began softly before exclaiming, “Their appendages!” In a rapid voice, he described how the Mongans had linked together in the cave.
Tor’al nodded. “So you have seen. An extraordinary sight. A mere handful of my people have witnessed that.”
He looked around as if to survey their surroundings before continuing. “Their triad may be a strength, but it is also a weakness. They are very cautious, often slow to decide. It may be that all three must be in unison—in agreement before they finalize a decision or plan.
“When one of the triad is lost, the other two become sluggish, disoriented. When two are lost, the remaining one is often slow to recover, to act. It is a trait and weakness that we exploit in battle.”
He paused before saying, “Our warriors have sometimes forced them from other regions—we may well cause them to turn away from your worlds.”
Dason glanced up at the sky. He was surprised to see that the sun neared the distant horizon. He and Tor’al had talked for some time. As he reflected on Tor’al’s words and the last few days, an overwhelming sadness filled his mind.
For centuries, humans had yearned for contact with other star races, to share knowledge, hopes, dreams, and friendship. Now to find a group of aliens that wanted nothing more than to blot not only humans out of existence but other interstellar civilizations as well was beyond comprehension.
