Under no definition of the term could a nriu newspod be called comfortable. Designed by the insectoid species for the storage, sorting and distribution of the data collected by the newspod skimmers, little living space was left for its crew. The word most often used to describe a newspod by non-nriu was "claustrophobic." The too-cramped arrangement never bothered the nriu, however.
Desumu wished it didn't bother him, either.
Newspod 761 had the most up-to-date blocking and transmitting equipment available, making it the best option for his long-distance conference with the Compact Council. Barring some freak accident, there was no way the Irkens could eavesdrop on the meeting. The price paid was being trapped in a cubicle seven feet by nine.
The illusion of spaciousness projected by the holographic image of the Council chamber didn't help. The nriu captain and Headmouth Tiutiko had offered him her own chair. Desumu refused the gracious offer out of strategy as well as courtesy. Standing forced the Councilors to view him as an equal, not a supplicant. A minor advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.
As things were turning out, he needed every advantage he could get.
"You are certain of this, Admiral?" the viyshoon Councilor asked. "That the Irkens fully intend to use this planet?"
"Councilor Sharm, the Tallest themselves laid claim to it during our initial exchange. Given their past history with captured territory, I'd say the exploitation of Earth is a certainty."
The viyshoon's silver brows dipped down. "But you saw no sign of actual planetary reconfiguration, Admiral. Not even the indication of a temporary docking station being built."
"Councilor," Desumu said, keeping his voice very calm, "the Irkens have just subjugated the planet. Apparently there are pockets of resistance from the native hominids in existence. The Organic Sweep is still ongoing. Until it's done and the natives are completely pacified, they won't build anything."
Sharm tilted his head to one side, conceding the point. "Resistance," he murmured. "Our distant cousins are resilient…." He swept steel-colored hair from his yellow-and-orange eyes. "Resourceful. Then the possibility exists the Irkens may lose interest and leave."
"No, Councilor, it does not."
The viyshoon frowned, his skin deepening to burnished bronze in irritation. "Your arrogance is unbecoming, Admiral."
"My arrogance is founded in experience and knowledge. The Compact has intelligence from Hobo 13 and the Planet-Jackers about the Irkens, and the Irken Empire's behavior speaks for itself. We may not have as much information as we want, but I know the Irken mindset as well as any of my fellow officers and — with all due respect — better than any being present."
"Are you telling me my job, Admiral?"
"No, Councilor. I am telling you mine."
Murmurs circled the Council table. Desumu met Sharm's glare with a steady gaze. He hated the viyshoon representative as a smug, self-satisfied prig with a steadfast refusal to see anything that didn't fit his view of how the universe worked. The Admiral wondered how large the bribe had been and to whom Sharm had paid it.
"Councilor Sharm, I believe your allotted time has expired." Chairwoman Servan's voice silenced the murmurs. "I for one accept the Admiral's analysis of the situation in Sol system, and thank him for it."
Sharm shot the Chairwoman a look of pure disgust, but said nothing more. Servan nodded regally at the tsaata representative. "Councilor Arbanos, the floor is yours."
Arbanos ran his fingers nervously around his collar and cleared his throat. "If I may bring up some history, since the Admiral broached the topic? The Dusajji Compact signed the LTOW Accord with the Irken Empire over seventy-five years ago. This is the Accord's first real test. Shouldn't we then do what it says and … look the other way?"
More murmurs. Desumu eyed the tsaata with a mix of disdain and grudging admiration. The Irken Empire had nearly absorbed the tsaata's three systems; in fact, the Dusajji Compact's scooping up the tsaata beneath the Empire's nose had instigated the LTOW Accords. He could understand why even the hint of a possibility of confrontation with the Irkens evoked the tsaata's appeasement instinct; he simply didn't agree with it. Still, the suggestion was a brave act, for Arbanos. In his forty years in front of the Council, this was only the second time Desumu had heard the alien speak.
"The system's outer planets are a potential mining treasure-trove," Sharm pointed out immediately. "We can't completely ignore that."
Arbanos blinked nervously. "Is mining worth going to war over?"
Sharm shrugged. "War is not the only option here." His eyes flicked over Desumu. "Despite what some may think."
"Is not Sol III a dusajji Protectorate?" Chiitok, the nriu Councilor, asked. Her voice synthesizer transmuted her native clicks and squeaks into a smooth, melodious female voice. "Is it not in Dusaj's interest to protect its own?"
Desumu looked at Servan. The Chairwoman's green eyes met his; Desumu shook his head slightly. She was dusajji, head of her canton and the Council Chairwoman. Let her do the politician's work.
"Sol III was never officially designated as a Protectorate," Servan said.
Chiitok's multi-faceted eyes blinked. "May I inquiry as to why?"
"In the beginning, simple distance: Sol III was our most far-flung colony. With its abandonment, and as time passed and the hominids advanced, the question of what changes if any to make to its status became a moot point. It was only in the last centuries when scholars, religious leaders and historians began to take an interest in our involvement there that the issue resurfaced. Politics kept it unresolved. In the last few years steps had been taken to declare it a Status Three — Intelligent Life, Surveillance Without Contact — Protectorate." Trellic paused. "Steps that are again a moot point, now."
"So Dusaj has no grounds to insist on any aggressive action." Arbanos bobbed his head. "The LTOW Accord would stand. The Empire goes its way, we go ours."
"It's not that simple," Desumu said. "If I may direct your attention to the map-screen behind you."
As one, the Councilors turned.
Desumu gestured to his right. Star systems lit up with a green glow. "Compact territory."
He gestured to his left. A considerably larger number of systems burned bright red. "Irken territory."
He jabbed at a spot separated by less than a finger's-width from a Compact system. The insignificant star shone with a pearly glow. "Earth."
Desumu looked around the Council.
"The Irken Empire is on our doorstep."
Arbanos dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. Sharm's eye-shields shuttered down. Chiitok drew in her foreclaws to her chest in the nriu defensive-offensive posture. Reactions from other Council representatives were less restrained: among the chaos Desumu caught the strains of a kichai curse-chant.
"ORDER!" Servan's amplified command resounded through the chamber. "Gentlebeings, control yourselves — we cannot decide on a plan of action if we give way to fear!"
Desumu waited for the noise and hysteria gradually died away. It took some time. Too much time. For Desumu, it was a distressing indicator of how blind – how complacent — the Compact itself and its member species had grown. They should have expected this sooner or later. The Irken Empire and the Compact had been lazily staring at one another and then away for nearly three centuries. The LTOW Accord had merely formalized an arrangement that couldn't last. Empire and Compact alike were expansionist, territorial and willing to fight to keep what it had. On the Compact's side, it was the Council's business to enact those goals politically.
Where politics ended, the Fleet's business began
"Thank you all for your cooperation," Servan said, as Arbanos' aide administered a shot to the tsaata and left. "Like you, I am distressed and dismayed at the matter before us. I fully believe we can decide what is best for the Compact if we set aside petty grievances and differences. Admiral, how long until the Tallest expect an answer from you?"
Desumu silently groaned. He could see where this was heading. "Two days, Madame Chairwoman."
The kichai representative stood up from her seat. "Two days? That's it? Admiral, were you insane ? We'll never —"
"Never is a strong word, Councilor Xiang," Servan cut in smoothly. "If we maintain our focus, we can reach a decision. What is a few hours' of sleep to the fate of the Compact? Admiral?"
"As you say, Madame Chairwoman."
Desumu slept, or tried to, during the adjournments when the Secondary and Primary representatives of each member species traded places in the debate. All too often his rest was interrupted by questions ranging from the Fleet's estimate of Irken military numbers to the fighter squadrons on the Akinama to the names of medical botanicals harvested from Sol III in the last year. The nriu crew searched through their datafiles in search of answers with a disgustingly chipper attitude. Desumu depleted their supply of stay-awake stimulants and watched the Council proceedings with an ever-growing relief that he hadn't gone into politics.
With fourteen hours to spare, the Council presented their decision. Standing upright by sheer force of will, Desumu congratulated them on their foresight and ingenuity assuring a bright new future in Irken/Compact relations. He saluted, bid them good-bye and good health and cut the transmission.
Then he collapsed to the floor and passed out.
Only moments later, it seemed, he was prodded awake.
"Admiral," said the nriu bending over him, "there is a private transmission from Madame Chairwoman Servan. We endeavored to explain your need for undisturbed rest, but she was most insistent."
Desumu hauled himself upright. "Put her on," he grumbled.
"Admiral. Do you not wish to groom yourself first?"
"No. If Servan's insisting on seeing me now, she'll see me now."
The nriu blinked. "As you wish."
The cubicle walls vanished, replaced with the Chairwoman's private meeting room. Servan, looking far too clean and refreshed, dipped her head in an equal's greeting.
"Thank you for your time, Admiral."
"You're welcome, Madame Chairwoman. What do you want?"
"To issue you your orders."
That got his attention, and not pleasantly. "The Council's offer makes my orders clear."
"What I tell you now supercedes the Council's offer."
Desumu felt the hair along his spine stiffen. "Go on."
"It is imperative the Irken Empire leave Sol system. You are to find some way to make sure it does. Use whatever material you have at hand."
Desumu sighed heavily. "Why wasn't that the decision? This … proposal is…" He hesitated, torn between courtesy and truth. Truth won. "Sheer stupidity."
"Because too many are terrified of provoking the Empire."
"Not without reason, Servan."
"Given. But I do not agree with the common wisdom that the Irkens will be content to take Sol and go no further." She folded her arms within her trailing sleeves. "Neither do you."
"No."
Servan studied him for a long moment. "You aren't going to protest, Admiral?"
"Protest to who? You? The Fleet Admiral? The Compact needs to show a united front, not its internal politicking."
"You should have run against me, Desumu."
"No."
"Our cantons are ancient rivals. Where's your love of tradition?"
"At home, in my closet."
The Chairwoman chuckled softly, shaking her head. "That sounds like a sense of humor, Admiral. Your reputation is slipping."
Desumu ignored the bait. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"
"Yes. Avoid bringing down a full-scale war on our heads."
"You have a lot of faith in me."
"More than you can imagine, Admiral. More than you can imagine."
#
"The Admiral's on his way back, Lieutenant."
Feywu hunched her shoulders. "Good for him." She highlighted the estimated damage to the Blue Ridge Mountains on the scan printout in front of her. The information wasn't useful — not anymore — but it made her feel productive.
"Skimmer's preparing to undock from the newspod. Want to watch?"
Feywu grunted and made a notation on the destruction of the Great Wall of China.
"Lieutenant, what's knotting your tail?"
"Don't call me that," Feywu snapped.
"Why not?" Mox swiveled his chair to face her. "You've got the rank."
"Don't want it, didn't ask for it, don't care." She glared at him. "Dhus Chohun can damn well take it back." Using Desumu's canton name set them as social equals, something she knew they were not. Still, it drove home her position.
Mox's ears twitched. "But I have to if Desumu's around."
"If he's around, that's one thing. Otherwise, don't."
"Fine. Whatever."
Feywu bit back a sigh. She hadn't thought the pilot-cum-Warrant Officer would metamorphose into such a toadlicker. He didn't seem the type. She shoved back from her station and went to the com, hovering over Mox's shoulder. "So where's the show?"
Mox hit a button and cleared the stand-by from the overhead. A shot of the newspod took its place. All five teardrop-shaped newskimmers were in their bays, resembling nothing so much as petals on a flower. Slowly one detached from the newspod. The com light flashed; Mox switched the control from headset to ship-wide. The nriu's trademark smooth female voice filled the bridge
"Bubastis, this is newskimmer Marigold. Respond."
"Responding, Marigold." Mox rubbed his nose. "Marigold, weren't you the Potholder?" Newskimmers were named, unlike the newspods which were numbered. As a result, nriu were prone to choose names from anything that struck their fancy.
"Affirmative, Bubastis. The change displays Newspod 761's solidarity with the Compact at this time. As well, the Headmouth found marigolds more aesthetically pleasing than potholders."
Mox and Feywu exchanged a look. "Copy that, Marigold."
"Meetpoint in five minutes, Bubastis . Please have connectors extended."
"Copy that, Marigold. Connectors extending."
Bubastis trembled slightly as the connectors and the Marigold took hold of each other. Feywu fancied she could even hear a faint clang of metal on metal. She watched the airlock-warning light slide from green to red. "Mainlock open," Mox said. "Mainlock closed. Retracting connectors, Marigold."
"Copy, Bubastis. Thank you and welcome. Marigold out."
Mox left his station to stand at the bridge door. Moments later Desumu emerged from the mainlock chamber onto the bridge proper. The pilot saluted. "Sir!"
"At ease, Warrant Officer." Desumu's eyes slid over Feywu, still at the com. If there was anything beyond exhaustion in his gaze, she couldn't find it. "Lieutenant, start reviewing this." He held out a recording capsule.
"Our orders. Study them well. There will be a quiz later. Warrant Officer, call up scans of the proper rank insignia for you and dhus Atkir, and have them replicated. Pinned-on printouts will have to do for now." He ran a hand over his face, and turned to the corridor that led to their bunks. "Wake me in five hours."
"There's eight hours left on the deadline, Admiral," Feywu pointed out.
Desumu shook his head. "Wake me in five hours," he repeated. "And get cracking." He disappeared down the corridor.
Feywu looked at Mox. Mox shrugged. "We've got our orders," he said philosophically.
It was easy for Mox, Feywu thought bitterly, sliding the recording capsule in its reader on the computer console. All he had to do was pilot the ship. She had to deal with the Irkens directly. Her, a diplomatic liaison. The idea still boggled her mind.
The contents of the capsule rolled up the screen. Feywu skimmed through the elaborate greetings demanded by protocol and into the proposal itself.
Less than a quarter way through, she scrolled up to the top and began again, this time continuing to the end. Disbelieving, she read it a second time. And a third.
After the fourth, she shut off the reader and stared straight ahead. "I can't believe it," she said. "I cannot believe it. The Council has lost its collective mind!"
"Huh?"
Feywu shook her head. "Look at this."
Mox read over her shoulder. "To Their Excellencies The Almighty Tallest of the Irken Empire —"
"Skip that. Drop down half the screen and start there."
She watched his face as he read, pinpointing with a grim satisfaction when polite confusion segued to bafflement and then to disbelief. "Is this right?" he asked, ears flicking nervously.
"Apparently."
Mox seemed to shrink in on himself. "That's…bad," he whispered. "I don't know politics from a pulsar, and I know that's bad." He looked up at Feywu. "I 'skimmed Irken territory with the Vhaan-Balamir cartel. Irkens demand the biggest bribes, and are the biggest double-crossers. This is giving them a green flag. Why didn't Desumu argue against this?" Mox scrolled further down. "He should have objected. Strenuously."
Feywu scowled. "I don't know. But you better believe I'm going to ask him."
Time dragged. Feywu went over the Council's terms again before reviewing Compact and Fleet diplomatic protocols. Mox printed out their insignia and drove her to distraction fussing with the placement on their cleanest shirts, then insisted on adjusting her shirt's fit to display her bars to best effect. Feywu was ready to clip his ears when Desumu returned to the bridge.
He looked more alive and less like a walking corpse, having taken the time to bathe and change into his dress blues. He nodded at Mox, who had immediately jumped to attention, and frowned at her.
"The first thing you'll need to learn, lieutenant, is proper respect for a commanding officer. You will salute, next time."
Feywu kept her ears upright. "With all due respect, Admiral, I find it difficult to maintain this farce. I'm not in the Fleet, let alone a lieutenant, and you know it."
Desumu's eyes narrowed. His ears flattened and his clawtips flashed beneath his coat cuffs, but his voice was calm and reasoned. "This is not a farce, dhus Atkir. I fully expect you to conduct yourself as an officer of the Dusajji Compact Fleet and my acting diplomatic liaison. I will be blunt. You are not my first choice. You would not be my second, or even my third. But you are what I have at hand, and you will be up to the task. What happens here will determine the future of the Compact itself, and I will order Akinama to fire on us before I let your pride sabotage our mission. Am I understood?"
Feywu's spine felt like solid ice. "Yes. Sir."
"Good." His ears returned upright. "You've read the Council's proposal."
"Yes, sir."
"Give me — "
"Sir, the Massive's contacting us!"
The Admiral swore softly. "I was hoping to beat them to it. Put them on, Warrant Officer."
The Tallest filled the screen. Literally.
"Greetings, Admiral Desumu, from the Irken Empire and the Almighty Tallest," Purple said.
Desumu nodded. "Greetings, Your Excellencies."
"It's been two days." Red leaned forward. "What does your Council have to say?"
"The Compact Council has a proposal for the Irken Empire. Lieutenant dhus Atkir will present it to you, Your Excellencies."
Brilliant, over-large eyes focused on Feywu. "Lieutenant dhus Atkir," Red repeated finally. "I thought she was a civilian. Pressed into service, Desumu?" His gaze shifted to Mox. "Your pilot as well?"
"Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures, Your Excellency. Dhus Atkir especially needed the rank if she's to serve as my diplomatic liaison to you."
The Tallest looked at each other.
Red rubbed his chin. "We won't have the honor of dealing with you, then, Admiral?"
"I'm afraid not, Your Excellency. Lieutenant dhus Atkir's knowledge of Sol III far outstrips mine. She'll be much more useful to you than me."
"I see. Well, then." Red suddenly smiled at her; the expression raised the hair along her spine. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. We look forward to working with you."
"Thank you, Your Excellency." Praise Kesh she'd taken that acting course as an elective.
"Now that's all done," Purple interjected, "what about this proposal?"
Feywu flicked a glance at Desumu, and began.
"To Their Excellencies, The Almighty Tallest of the Irken Empire —"
Red made a shooing gesture with his fingers. "Enough with the pleasantries, Lieutenant. Get to the meat of the offer."
Feywu nodded. "As you wish. The Compact proposes an exchange of materials and services in the spirit of goodwill and mutually satisfactory borders with the Irken Empire."
"What materials and services are you talking about?" Red asked.
"Shared mining rights to the outermost planets and a portion of the mineral wealth of Sol III. Artifacts from Sol III's various civilizations. An animal preserve to insure the continued survival of certain species of felines and their natural prey."
Purple's eyes narrowed. "And what do we get out of this?"
The words nearly stuck in her throat. "Access to certain Compact technology, most notably communication, medical and starcraft technology.
The Tallest looked at her.
"That's it?" Red scowled. "That's all?"
"Communication technology…would that include technology from the nriu as well as from Dusaj?" Purple asked.
Feywu mentally cursed him. "Yes, Your Excellency, it does."
Red blinked, then slowly smiled. "That's all right, then. So all the Compact members are involved, not just the Dusajji?" At Feywu's nod, his smile grew into a grin. "You have a deal, Lieutenant."
"Except for one thing," Purple cut in, glaring at his co-ruler. "This bit about the Earth artifacts. We have to approve them. All of them."
"Your Excellency, our interest is in the cultural heritage of the hominids, not their armaments."
Purple's eyes narrowed. "Either we have final approval, Lieutenant, or there is no agreement. Choose."
Feywu counted to twenty. "Very well," she said at last. "You have final approval on all Earth civilization artifacts. I will draw up an initial list and relay it to you within twenty-four hours."
"We're getting a record of this, of course," Red said.
"Of course, Your Excellency. I can transmit the official document to you momentarily."
"Good for you. We'll be expecting it, and your list. Ta-ta, Lieutenant!"
The screen went black.
"So," Desumu said, breaking the silence. "What do you think?"
"I think this entire proposal was crafted by an idiot," Feywu said, still staring at the screen. "I think the Council's signing the Compact's death warrant. I think the Irkens will find a way to twist the agreement to their advantage — as if it wasn't already."
"I won't comment on your first two opinions, dhus Atkir. It's not my place…or yours. But I agree with you on the last. Your debriefing on the Irken Empire starts now."
"Are they really that stupid?"
Red wiped his eyes, sagging helplessly against the briefing room wall. He looked down at Purple, who was still bent double and starting to hiccup.
"Can't talk — laughing," Purple gasped.
"Well, stop," Red said. He thumped his co-Tallest between the shoulder blades. "This proposal of theirs is funny, but… it's not funny."
Purple canted an eye at him. He hiccupped one last time and carefully straightened, grimacing as his back cracked. "Funny but not funny? Huh?"
"Oh, it's hilarious." Red grabbed their drinks from the table with a pair of spider legs. "We get their best pickings and give away nothing of value. That's why it's … funny. It doesn't make sense."
Purple sipped his soda, frowning. At last he said, "They're trying to bribe us."
"Pfft — duh! But what for?"
"To stay put," Purple answered. "Remember that line about 'mutually satisfactory borders'? Earth is ours now. I think that makes them…nervous."
"Huh." Red took a drink. "Think we should?"
"Oh, sure. For now."
The Tallest looked at each other and sniggered.
"Red," Purple said suddenly, "what if we are giving away valuable stuff?"
"How? With what?"
Purple gestured. "These artifacts the Compact wants. What are they? What are they for?"
"What difference does it make? It's all the remnants of an inferior species."
"The FE-47, Red." Purple folded his arms.
Red frowned. "Yeah. Good point. They might have a secret weapon out there. And they used …water." He grimaced. "A lot. What if there's something else that could be turned against us?"
"My point exactly."
"So, how do we find it?"
"We ask our own expert."
Quin was in the sewing room of her cell, working on her seams as instructed. She rose when they entered, her expression wary. Purple noted that while technically recovered from her recent bout of dehydration, she appeared…worn. A waxy pallor to the skin that hadn't been there before, the luster gone from her hair. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes; he could nearly see the bones in her wrists. He recalled what the chief physician in the medical bay had said: that the repeated dehydration was beginning to damage her, possibly beyond repair.
Perhaps it was time for Red to handle her discipline.
"Sit down, Veronica." Fear flickered in her eyes. Purple reached out and brushed the curls away from her face reassuringly. Yes, if nothing else her hair had suffered. He felt her shudder, but she obeyed.
"Tallest Red and I have discussed your duties. We're changing them."
There was a pause. Then she said, "To what?"
Her voice was raspy, hoarse; it had been clear and firm two days ago. The dehydration would have to stop, at least for a while.
"You will still serve us, but only at lunch. Before then, you'll be sewing. Afterward…" Purple hesitated. What to tell her? They had decided on the bare minimum, but how bare was bare?
Red saved him from appearing indecisive. "You'll be teaching us about Earth culture."
Quin looked at them. She wasn't frowning — not exactly — but her brows dipped down in puzzlement. "Is there a problem, Quin?" Purple asked.
"Which culture? And why?"
"Whichever culture we tell you." Red straightened, hovering closer to her. "Because we said so."
Their slave wrapped her arms around herself, but she didn't look away from Red. "Earth has … There was a lot of different cultures. I'm only really familiar with my own."
"Make do," Red said.
"I'll need more water."
Purple frowned. "What?"
"I'll need more water. Talking is thirsty work."
Purple glanced at Red. Red shrugged.
"We'll see," Purple said. "No promises. You might begin tomorrow. We haven't decided yet. The guards will escort you to our lounge. Oh, and Quin? Housekeeping will be up with new clothes for you. Make sure you wear them."
"Yes, my Tallest."
Purple smiled, and patted her fondly. "That's my good girl."
"She was bargaining, Purple," Red said once they had left Quin's cell.
"Yes, she was."
"You let her win?"
"I let her think she won."
"Purple…." Red groaned. "I don't know about this. She was barely malleable before. She's less so now. I can see it, even if you can't."
"Who said I couldn't?" Purple grinned. "Let's discuss this over curly fries. I have some ideas to bounce off you."
#
The fluorescents worked down here, ironically. Kip switched off his mag-light. No sense wasting batteries.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, stopping each time he performed the Standard Operating Procedure and checked each door. He wondered what those rooms had been for; not all of them could have been storage. Training, maybe? Alien autopsies?
He snorted. Right. An alien corpse was the one thing Altair Base lacked to fulfill a UFO conspirator's dream. Shit, it even had the black helicopters.
For all the good they did.
"None of that. Keep on keeping on."
Keep on keeping on for what?
Kip ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind. Doubt was the enemy; he fought it as best he could. Which, if he were perfectly honest with himself, wasn't much. There was only so long he could focus his emotions into anger and a need for revenge like Fred, fall back into routine like Walker and the rest of the squad, or retreat into music and Tylenol IVs like Roth. In his heart of hearts he'd always been a realist. Reality was one simple fact:
They were going to die here.
Of cold, of starvation, of contaminated water, of being found out. The choices were all bad. Some, like Sanchez and Mackenzie and DeNouma, had eaten bullets. Walkowski hung herself. But that had been in the early days, when hope and despair both outshone the sun and were capable of blinding rational thought.
He couldn't remember the last time he felt hope.
The corridor ended in a T. Kip turned left and continued the door check.
Altair Base was huge. It warehoused not only the original spacecraft and hangars in which the prototypes had been built, but all the necessary personnel. Nestled in the Iron Mountain range in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Altair was isolated, unknown and completely off the official and unofficial government computer network. Over the past thirty-five years, sections and departments had been added as needed, growing into a small city.
We're dying like the rest, but by inches. Roth had said that the other night, during dinner out of the blue. Everyone stared at him without speaking. Roth had given them an owl-eyed glance, then gone back to his spaghetti. James had stabbed his own food, swearing violently under his breath. Kip barely managed to shut him up before Walker noticed.
Roth had been right. Communication with Washington had been lost immediately. Houston and Cape Canaveral tagged along within hours. No satellite contact since the invaders' ships were first sighted. Raiding parties still went out albeit irregularly, foraging for information and supplies. They had better luck with the former. Apparently they weren't the only ones gone to ground; rumors of a resistance force reached them through one of the "mountain men" a recon party encountered. Kip didn't believe it, but he couldn't bring himself to dismiss the idea completely. If it was true, he wished them more success than they'd had.
Another month, and Prototype 2 would have engaged the enemy along with Prototype 1. Two human-crafted spaceships may not have turned the battle, but they could have inflicted a world of hurt on the invaders.
But they hadn't had another month, and Dorsett had manned Prototype 1's guns because DeNouma froze at the last minute. Dorsett did her duty, and the secrets of the alien weapons system died with her. Prototype 2 was complete but for the arms, a tiger without teeth.
If they'd had more time. If DeNouma hadn't lost his nerve. If, if, if.
"Can't live on ifs," Kip said, and jiggled the knob on the left-hand side's last door.
It turned.
Kip's hand dropped to his holster; he unsnapped it and drew his gun. He didn't know when this room had last seen use; probably someone had simply forgotten to lock it. Probably.
You couldn't live on if, but you could die on probably.
He eased the door open, leaning away and listening.
Nothing.
He sidled up and slowly reached inside, feeling along the wall. Light switches were standardized…. His fingers slid over a knob of plastic, and the fluorescents set in the ceiling flickered on.
It was a storage room, mainly for old electronics by the looks of it. Kip walked a circuit of the room, examining the aisles of shelving units. Two-way radios, Geiger counters, phones, printers and fax machines, even old calculators. Three units held nothing but spare parts, another two nothing but batteries. He wondered if they were any good. On a table against the far wall was a collection of short-wave radios.
Kip snorted. Someone's hobby. He rubbed a finger down the dials of the nearest; the dust was ground into the grooves.
Screeching erupted from the radio.
"Shit!" He yanked the volume down, grimacing. The screeching became a white noise hum.
He should turn it off. Likely there wasn't anyone to contact. He reached for the power button. And stopped.
That wasn't static. Too rhythmic, too regular, it sounded almost like Morse code.
Kip snorted. Right. He should turn the damn thing off before he dreamed up an interstellar cavalry to save the day.
He was reaching for the power button when a differing set of signals cut into the near-Morse code. He froze, then sat down in the rickety chair, dusted off the headset and slipped it over his ears.
The near-Morse dominated again moments later, but its victory was short-lived. The second set overrode it, only to be overrode itself by yet a third, a mechanical pulse.
For some time, Kip sat there listening. He wasn't an expert in short-wave, but he'd bet his life what he heard wasn't the standard static and echoes. It wasn't any code he knew.
Any human code.
Three different sets of signals. Three different creators?
The invaders were a single species: all the reports and rumors agreed on that. If there were other aliens out there, were they allies or enemies of the invaders?
Would the answer make a difference?
Before he could change his mind, he tapped on the mike.
Short-short-short, long-long-long, short-short-short.
S.O.S.
He repeated the mayday twenty times, then pushed away from the table. What he'd done could get him court-martialed. Hell with court-martial, shot and tossed out in the woods. Kip shrugged. A quicker, cleaner end than he could expect from the invaders, most likely.
He stood, staring at the radio. Leave it, part of him urged. Leave it and keep your mouth shut and hope none of the little green runts come calling.
And leave behind any possible non-hostile answer.
Kip tucked the radio under one arm and left, turning off the lights and locking the door. He had a patrol to finish.
Mox didn't like nightwatch.
Too quiet, too still, too much potential for disaster that didn't seem to exist with others around. Years as a pilot still hadn't freed him from what the flight instructor at the Compact Academy called the spooks: seeing things out of the corner of your eye, hearing sounds that hovered just beyond normal range. Mox had done his damnedest to hide his vulnerability from his teachers. If his disregard for authority hadn't expelled him, the spooks would have done the job. Later he'd been even more careful; his business partners were more likely to space him as a liability than simply give nightwatch to someone else. Mox learned to cope.
Having something to do made coping easier. The Admiral wanted the signal activity of all parties monitored. Between the Irkens' maneuvers and the nriu's transmissions back to Compact territory, Earth-space was noisy.
Desumu was hoping for some lucky break, a slipup on the Irkens' part. Wishful thinking, to Mox's mind. With the nriu in-system, the Irkens would be even more careful. They were sending out decoy signals; Desumu had pointed them out to him. It felt politic not to say he'd spotted them an hour earlier. He rather liked Desumu.
The scanner's recorder clicked off numbers. Mox gave them a cursory glance. A nriu transmission; beyond that, "dead" radio signals from Earth. He'd played some for Feywu, trying to lighten her mood. A mistake. She'd snarled and ignored him for the rest of the shift.
He hadn't thought she'd grown that attached to Earth. It happened to her type of Scholar, he supposed.
More numbers rolled in. Irken this time, from the Massive to a Spittle Runner. Innocuous, so far as anything Irken could be innocuous.
A different set of numbers scrolled up the screen. Mox frowned. This wasn't any code he knew. He slipped on his headset and converted the strange code to sound. His frown deepened.
Short-short-short, long-long-long, short-short-short.
The unfamiliar pattern repeated itself. Mox broadened the scanner's search. The map of the solar system popped up, rapidly shrinking in focus and detail as the signal was traced back to its origin.
"Sweet Mother Suktara." Mox sank in his chair.
The signal came from Earth.
More precisely, it came from an area of Earth the communiqués they'd managed to eavesdrop on before official contact claimed held hominid holdouts to the Irken conquest.
He didn't know what the code meant. Feywu would, most likely.
And the Irkens?
Mox switched back to a system-wide scan. If the Irkens had picked that up as well…. Several tense minutes passed without any response from the Empire to the peculiar code.
He leaned on his elbows. The signal frequency too was odd. Very low. Too low for the Irkens, maybe.
He called up the recording of the mysterious Earth signal and compared with the Irken transmissions from the past seventy-two hours. None of the frequencies the Irkens used corresponded with the one used by the Earth-signal.
Mox rubbed his face. They had orders to alert Desumu to anything out of the ordinary. Feywu had pointed out that nothing in this situation was ordinary. Desumu had ignored her. Still, Mox admired her guts.
His shift was almost over. He could wait….
Sighing, Mox got up and headed for the crew quarters. He hoped Desumu was a light sleeper.