Undiscovered Territory
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Language Mechanics
Dende swallowed in an ultimately failed attempt to get some moisture back into his throat, and he nearly fell over again, dazed anew. The sight before him made him want to faint.
All seven. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was sitting right in front of him, in the orange balls that looked unfailingly serene even in this dark circumstance. They even seemed to glow a little, and Dende almost cursed them for being so – couldn't they sense what was going on? It was a foolish thing to think, and he was well aware of this, but it did not stop him. What did it matter that the balls had no sentience?
He had been in a similar situation on the old planet, back when he had summoned Porunga for the first time, though perhaps it hadn't been quite as frightening as this. Certainly that man Vegeta had threatened his life in order to get a wish, and Frieza had been fast approaching, but at least Dende had also been in the presence of two friends. At that point, he hadn't known either Kuririn or Gohan all that well, but he'd had ample evidence to prove that they were good people. Their presence had been somewhat reassuring.
Now, he was in the midst of a place with only enemies.
Without knowing what else to do, Dende pushed himself to his feet. Desperate situation or not, he could at least make an attempt at showing as little fear as he possibly could. Not that this was one of his stronger points or anything, but it was just about all he had at the moment. That and his wits, which he struggled to keep inside of his mind the same as he had done with his sanity. He needed whatever he could get before help arrived. Assuming, of course, that it ever did. He wasn't particularly optimistic about that chance.
"All accounted for commander," one of the new figures said, saluting the one that had brought him here. "We managed to sneak the artifacts away from the battle totally undetected, and those remaining continue to be in engagement with the enemy. Should we return to help –"
The alien that had brought him, a tall blue skinned creature with slitted yellow eyes, cut the first man off. "Don't bother. It would be a waste, whether they can handle it or not. Stay here."
"Yes, Commander Basalt."
With these words, the other aliens stepped backward, leaving a clear trail open to the Dragonballs. They seemed to be set up in almost perfect formation – six in a circle with one at the very centre – if a bit far apart, an absurd anchor of serenity in a terrible situation. Though the suns were as bright and warm as they had ever been in their existence, Dende had never felt so shadowed or so cold; he could not stop the shivers from working their way through his body, and in truth never thought of it. There were more important things to worry about right now.
Like just how he was supposed to stop this whole mess.
"Come here, brat," ordered the alien called Basalt; he had stepped closer to the Dragonballs when all of the others had backed off. "Don't make me order you again."
Dende froze, unable to move any more than his mouth at the moment. And even that was not working properly, as no sound, not even an unintelligible one, came forth. Perhaps it was the dry throat working against him. Or perhaps he could consider that working in his favour, in case he would find the urge to crumble and give in to the wishes of his captors.
He liked to think of himself as a little braver than that, but he was no hero. This whole self sacrifice thing sounded sort of noble, but he didn't really think that he was up to it. He was just a child, a child of a people who revered life and took such things as suicide as a high crime. There was probably a little leniency for self-sacrifice, though it didn't make things sound any more appealing than they already were.
He didn't want to move, but one of the aliens had gotten behind him and roughly shoved him forward. "You deaf, boy? The commander told you to approach."
There was no other option but to obey. These people had mentioned something about a battle, if he recalled correctly, so there could potentially be help on the way. Nervously, he shuffled forward, steps small and timid; his eyes were drawn to the distant sky, where multicoloured lights briefly flashed over one another. Dende knew a ki blast when he saw one. The battle was being waged there, not so far away from him. Maybe he could just stall long enough . . .
He almost didn't get his eyes back to his own situation before running into Basalt. Startled, he stumbled back a little, but as scary as those eyes were, they were not as frightening as those that had belonged to Doctor Gneiss. At least these ones had pupils to them, like some animal that was used to skulking about in the small forests. There was visible expression to them, and that much was encouraging even if the expression itself was not.
"I don't have a lot of time, brat, so it would be in your best interest to co-operate," Basalt said; the edge in his voice would make even the most well honed knife seem dull, and Dende unconsciously shrank from it. "Do whatever needs to be done to get these things to work."
He didn't want to speak, but he forced words out anyway. "I . . . I . . . Sir, I don't know what you're talking about," Dende responded at last. Maybe playing dumb would buy him a little time. "I don't –"
Basalt knelt down to his level, staring him straight in the eye. "Do you think that I am a stupid man, brat? You think that I believe a word of that drivel?" The man paused, chuckled. "I tell you what: if you can say to me that you don't know, while looking me dead in the eye and not flinching, maybe I will."
Dende's shoulders relaxed a bit as he sighed. He may have just managed to talk his way out of this. After taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes to meet those of Basalt and opened his mouth to speak.
"Of course," Basalt added casually, "if you don't, I've got no reason to keep you alive."
Dende almost choked on his own tongue. So much for that little bit of hope. Now what was he supposed to do? He resisted the urge to glance upward again, toward that not so distant battle. That was still his only chance, if he could just make things last long enough . . .
He lowered his head in half-feigned defeat. Trembling, he said, "I know how."
Basalt made a smug sound of approval. "Now there's a good boy. I knew it." Roughly, he shoved Dende closer to the Dragonballs. "Don't waste any time, brat. Just make it work."
Dende caught himself before he fell, using one of the balls for support. The warmth and calmness that was contained within gave him strength, but at the same time also imbued him with a sense of guilt. He felt like he was betraying them by taking this risk, just to save his own hide.
At this, he jerked away from the ball as if he could do the same for that feeling that it had shot into his mind. Maybe this was a little selfish, but he had to try it, didn't he? If nobody came to help him, then he could just call the whole plan off. Die with a little honour and dignity; all in all, that probably wasn't a bad way to go.
"I told you not to waste any time, brat."
"Y-yes." Dende's voice cracked, and he willed the traitorous thoughts away from his mind for now. Hopefully, he could atone for them later. And if not that, then he would doubtless be punished for them in the afterlife.
Dende rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath before he began.
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Scargo had known that he was making a stupid move even as he made it, but he could not bring himself to stop. He had crawled out from under the ship in an attempt to see what had happened to the Dragonball when the nearest alien body, that he thought to be surely dead suddenly leapt to its feet and lunged toward him. He shrieked diving to the side even as he knew that it really was all over this time . . .
But this knowledge never came to pass, for his ears caught a sharp impact and a grunt of pain.
"Hold, young one," came an oddly soothing voice, and one that Scargo vaguely recognized. "This one will give you no more trouble."
Nervously, Scargo looked up, and up and up . . . directly into the face of one of his people's warriors, and a tall one at that. It took a moment for recognition to bless him, but when it did, he broke out into a relieved smile even as battles continued to be waged around them.
"Whelk!" He ran up to the older Namek, hugging his leg. Here at last was a true, touchable hope, the first one of his people he had been able to talk to besides Dende in days. And Whelk was the best warrior in the village; he no doubt had things under complete control here. In only a matter of time, everything could be fixed, just as soon as they found Dende and figured out where the Dragonballs had gone. Then everything would be perfect and everyone could just put this nightmare behind them.
Whelk gave him a careful look. "Are you all right, Scargo? And isn't Dende with you?"
Miserably, Scargo shook his head. "He said that we should separate to try and get away. I haven't seen him since before I got out here – Aah!"
In perfect timing with his scream, Whelk looked up and fired a ki blast into the chest of an alien who had taken it upon himself to attack at this exact moment. The alien dropped instantly, smoke rising from the hole blown through his body. Scargo shivered at the very sight, even though it was one of the bad guys; it just wasn't a nice thing to see.
But his shivers did not last long as Whelk abruptly flung him to the ground, and a deafening boom resounded above him. Scargo looked up to see smoke pouring out from a hole in the ship – there were an awful lot of those, now that he took a second to catch sight of it – and a piece of debris falling straight for him.
In a rush of panic, he regained his feet only to dive to the ground once more, landing a few feet away as the large chunk of metal crashed into the earth at his previous position. Normally in a situation like this, Scargo would have sighed in relief, but right now he was too tense and exhausted to do anything more than force himself to stand.
Almost immediately, however, he lunged back under the ship. There was too much going on right now, too much chaos. Things would be a whole lot better if he just went back into hiding for now.
The battle was not over yet.
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Nobody needed to be a genius to see that the ship was utterly doomed. Perhaps if there were anything in the way of decent raw materials on this planet -- which seemed highly unlikely – things could be repaired after this battle. Assuming that they won, of course; he did not know the state of things going on outside.
But just because the ship was doomed, that didn't mean that everyone on it had to suffer the same fate. Like any good ship, there were a quantity of escape pods attached in case of emergency – provided that they had not been damaged. Another assumption that had to be made, though he had to admit that he was pretty good at those. It was part of his profession.
Explosions rumbled behind him, shook the floor under his feet. Once, he had nearly gotten a face full of fiery metal as a blast had punched a hole through the wall directly in front of him.
And he still kept running, searching everywhere he could in order to find those members of the crew that had not joined the fight on the outside. Most of them were still alive, though he did come across a few corpses. He would have liked to do something for them, but there was not time enough for that. More important to worry about the living; the dead had no more concerns.
He shuffled as many people off to escape pods as he could, guiding them along ahead of himself, giving them the order to leave as soon as they reached them. Not being able to follow them yet, he turned back to search for other survivors, and he was running.
Always running.
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Dende continued to speak soft words, those of complete nonsense though that was unknown to his captors. All he had to do was keep pretending for just a little while longer. If he could just keep up this farce of the incantation being long and complex, he still had a chance of getting out of this without the aliens being granted whatever evil wishes they had.
But he quivered as he spoke, having a most unpleasant audience glaring over his shoulder. The shadow over him reminded him of a cloudy night back on Earth, so dark that even the stars could not penetrate the atmosphere. And this made it all the more surreal to see the blazing light of the suns high overhead.
In a way, though, he was sort of glad for the shadow being there. He was not sure how long he had been out here on his feet, whispering words in a dry throat, his mind struggling to make sure that they meant nothing at all. For all of his previous efforts, his brain was a little foggy and wanted to follow the natural inclination to speak in his own tongue. At least without the extra sunlight he could dull the effects of being out in the heat for too long, even if the shadow had only been there for a short time.
"Brat, you're taking too long," Basalt growled behind him.
Dende stiffened, and stopped his phoney incantation for a moment. He swallowed before speaking in a voice that he wished he could have kept strong and steady. "This is the way that it has to be, sir," he tried, swallowing again in an attempt to regain moisture in his throat. This was not the first time that he had been interrupted. "Getting the Dragonballs to work is very complicated. I'm afraid that I'll have to start over again, now – Ungh!"
A sharp blow slammed into his backside, and he tumbled face first to the ground. He didn't move for a moment, trying to draw breath back into his body, but then rolled over to aid in his breathing. Determinedly, he forced his eyes to stay open, staring directly into the cold yellow slits belonging to Basalt. There was no mistaking a look like that; the man had run out of patience with him.
"Don't give me that garbage!" he snarled, and Dende flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as he fired a ki blast toward him.
But no pain came. There was a bright flash at the corner of his eye that left a pattern of purple light on the inside, an instance of searing heat, and a spray of dirt that came over his face. Dende sat up, coughing the dirt out of his mouth even as he mentally sagged in relief. He had really thought that he was dead this time.
Basalt knelt down and jerked him forward by his collar. "I've been listening to what you've been saying in those incantations, brat, and they don't match. If I didn't know better, then I would say that you're trying to scam me."
Dende gulped. He had honestly tried to make the words the same, but that was a difficult thing to do when one was simply making up new words while going along. What had he been thinking doing that? He should have just chanted something in his native language, like some old song or story so that he could have remembered it in the event of repetition. His head was too muddled still to be dealing with a situation like this.
The next blow didn't help him any – a sharp slap to his temple which sent his brain rolling around in his skull. He longed to put a hand up there to steady the world in his vision, but he just didn't seem to have the co- ordination for that kind of precise movement. His hand raised uselessly before dropping back to his side again.
"I would advise you to stop playing games with me, child." It was Basalt's voice once more, as hard and swift as his strikes had been. "That was your last warning. If you don't straighten up right now, then I'm going to kill you."
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The last of them finally fell, a desperate, bloody mess of a thing. It was a hideous yet welcome sight. A battle's end was always a good thing, at least for those who had won it.
Yes, it was all just a matter of perspective, and from his perspective it was indeed a good victory, though the price that it came at was quite high. Of the twenty one warriors who had gathered here at this ship, only ten remained. Their numbers were reduced by just over one half. It was a painful sight to see, even for one such as himself.
Certainly, he liked to be left alone, but that did not mean that he wished for the death of any of his kinsmen. What kind of Namek would he be otherwise? He may have contempt for a few particular people, but for his race in itself, he always held the utmost of respect – even if he often chose not to show it.
Just like he showed nothing of the pain that he felt of the sight of half their number lying strewn across the ground. His lips turned no deeper into a frown than usual, and his eyes neither narrowed, nor stung. At this, the few of his comrades that could manage to look away from their dead brethren offered him scowls. They were doubtless wondering how he didn't care. But no matter. Why should he have to show that he cared, anyway?
He barely spared these a glance as he picked his way casually along the battlefield, stepping around corpses in one place while stepping over them in others. Such disgusting things, corpses were – though again, he showed nothing upon his face. How he felt about things was not the point here. There were other matters to consider.
By the time that he reached the ship, or what remained of it, a child had crawled free of the wreckage, miraculously uninjured. He immediately recognized it as Scargo, and a smirk threatened to take hold of his stoic lips. He avoided it though. Now was not the time for any sort of emotional display. Things were not over yet.
The child was clinging to Whelk's leg, which was almost surprising in a way. He would have figured that Scargo would have clung to Limpet – who was standing by him as well, seemingly not much worse for the wear – if he were going to cling to anyone. Limpet was always the best one with the kids. Whelk was usually too serious to be enjoyed by a child, and he himself . . . Well, he was not the most comforting presence for a child, either.
"He might still be in there," Scargo was saying, his face still buried in Whelk's leg. His voice was muffled by the fabric, but could still be easily heard and understood. "You didn't wreck it too much, did you? He could still be –"
So Dende was still inside the ship, was he? At this, even he almost grimaced. While the ship was not totally destroyed, over half of it was damaged pretty much beyond recognition. Anyone who looked at it would be certain that it had always been a half melted, smoking pile of scrap metal. The further ends of the ship looked to be mostly intact, so if Dende had been in any of that area, he might still be all right . . .
"We really ought to look . . ." Limpet said quietly. Even his voice was subdued by the situation at hand. "It's not impossible."
No, it was not impossible, but the hope was more than slim. Perhaps he should council everyone of this fact before they got their expectations too high. But no. It was not in his nature to initiate a conversation, and he would not break that even now. If asked, then he would give his advice on the matter. If not, he would keep his silence just as he always did.
And anyway, it was not necessarily the end of things should the worst of fates have befallen Dende. This was surely a terrible line of thought, but that did not stop it from flying through his mind. After all, situations such as these were what the Dragonballs were for . . .
The Dragonballs.
That was what he had seen during that brief break in the battle: one of the aliens flying off, with something large tucked under its arm. He hurriedly glanced about, hoping to put lie to his suspicions. How could they have forgotten about the Dragonballs?
It did not take long for his suspicions to be confirmed, but it was not the sight in his immediate area that did it for him. Before he could take everything in here, his eyes were drawn away, to something most terrible indeed. And for once, he broke his code of silence.
"Over there," he said quietly, only faintly aware that he had spoken.
And soon it was not just over there, but all around them. Rolling black clouds that darkened the sky, flashes of light in the distance that meant one thing and one thing alone.
Porunga had been summoned.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Language Mechanics
Dende swallowed in an ultimately failed attempt to get some moisture back into his throat, and he nearly fell over again, dazed anew. The sight before him made him want to faint.
All seven. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was sitting right in front of him, in the orange balls that looked unfailingly serene even in this dark circumstance. They even seemed to glow a little, and Dende almost cursed them for being so – couldn't they sense what was going on? It was a foolish thing to think, and he was well aware of this, but it did not stop him. What did it matter that the balls had no sentience?
He had been in a similar situation on the old planet, back when he had summoned Porunga for the first time, though perhaps it hadn't been quite as frightening as this. Certainly that man Vegeta had threatened his life in order to get a wish, and Frieza had been fast approaching, but at least Dende had also been in the presence of two friends. At that point, he hadn't known either Kuririn or Gohan all that well, but he'd had ample evidence to prove that they were good people. Their presence had been somewhat reassuring.
Now, he was in the midst of a place with only enemies.
Without knowing what else to do, Dende pushed himself to his feet. Desperate situation or not, he could at least make an attempt at showing as little fear as he possibly could. Not that this was one of his stronger points or anything, but it was just about all he had at the moment. That and his wits, which he struggled to keep inside of his mind the same as he had done with his sanity. He needed whatever he could get before help arrived. Assuming, of course, that it ever did. He wasn't particularly optimistic about that chance.
"All accounted for commander," one of the new figures said, saluting the one that had brought him here. "We managed to sneak the artifacts away from the battle totally undetected, and those remaining continue to be in engagement with the enemy. Should we return to help –"
The alien that had brought him, a tall blue skinned creature with slitted yellow eyes, cut the first man off. "Don't bother. It would be a waste, whether they can handle it or not. Stay here."
"Yes, Commander Basalt."
With these words, the other aliens stepped backward, leaving a clear trail open to the Dragonballs. They seemed to be set up in almost perfect formation – six in a circle with one at the very centre – if a bit far apart, an absurd anchor of serenity in a terrible situation. Though the suns were as bright and warm as they had ever been in their existence, Dende had never felt so shadowed or so cold; he could not stop the shivers from working their way through his body, and in truth never thought of it. There were more important things to worry about right now.
Like just how he was supposed to stop this whole mess.
"Come here, brat," ordered the alien called Basalt; he had stepped closer to the Dragonballs when all of the others had backed off. "Don't make me order you again."
Dende froze, unable to move any more than his mouth at the moment. And even that was not working properly, as no sound, not even an unintelligible one, came forth. Perhaps it was the dry throat working against him. Or perhaps he could consider that working in his favour, in case he would find the urge to crumble and give in to the wishes of his captors.
He liked to think of himself as a little braver than that, but he was no hero. This whole self sacrifice thing sounded sort of noble, but he didn't really think that he was up to it. He was just a child, a child of a people who revered life and took such things as suicide as a high crime. There was probably a little leniency for self-sacrifice, though it didn't make things sound any more appealing than they already were.
He didn't want to move, but one of the aliens had gotten behind him and roughly shoved him forward. "You deaf, boy? The commander told you to approach."
There was no other option but to obey. These people had mentioned something about a battle, if he recalled correctly, so there could potentially be help on the way. Nervously, he shuffled forward, steps small and timid; his eyes were drawn to the distant sky, where multicoloured lights briefly flashed over one another. Dende knew a ki blast when he saw one. The battle was being waged there, not so far away from him. Maybe he could just stall long enough . . .
He almost didn't get his eyes back to his own situation before running into Basalt. Startled, he stumbled back a little, but as scary as those eyes were, they were not as frightening as those that had belonged to Doctor Gneiss. At least these ones had pupils to them, like some animal that was used to skulking about in the small forests. There was visible expression to them, and that much was encouraging even if the expression itself was not.
"I don't have a lot of time, brat, so it would be in your best interest to co-operate," Basalt said; the edge in his voice would make even the most well honed knife seem dull, and Dende unconsciously shrank from it. "Do whatever needs to be done to get these things to work."
He didn't want to speak, but he forced words out anyway. "I . . . I . . . Sir, I don't know what you're talking about," Dende responded at last. Maybe playing dumb would buy him a little time. "I don't –"
Basalt knelt down to his level, staring him straight in the eye. "Do you think that I am a stupid man, brat? You think that I believe a word of that drivel?" The man paused, chuckled. "I tell you what: if you can say to me that you don't know, while looking me dead in the eye and not flinching, maybe I will."
Dende's shoulders relaxed a bit as he sighed. He may have just managed to talk his way out of this. After taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes to meet those of Basalt and opened his mouth to speak.
"Of course," Basalt added casually, "if you don't, I've got no reason to keep you alive."
Dende almost choked on his own tongue. So much for that little bit of hope. Now what was he supposed to do? He resisted the urge to glance upward again, toward that not so distant battle. That was still his only chance, if he could just make things last long enough . . .
He lowered his head in half-feigned defeat. Trembling, he said, "I know how."
Basalt made a smug sound of approval. "Now there's a good boy. I knew it." Roughly, he shoved Dende closer to the Dragonballs. "Don't waste any time, brat. Just make it work."
Dende caught himself before he fell, using one of the balls for support. The warmth and calmness that was contained within gave him strength, but at the same time also imbued him with a sense of guilt. He felt like he was betraying them by taking this risk, just to save his own hide.
At this, he jerked away from the ball as if he could do the same for that feeling that it had shot into his mind. Maybe this was a little selfish, but he had to try it, didn't he? If nobody came to help him, then he could just call the whole plan off. Die with a little honour and dignity; all in all, that probably wasn't a bad way to go.
"I told you not to waste any time, brat."
"Y-yes." Dende's voice cracked, and he willed the traitorous thoughts away from his mind for now. Hopefully, he could atone for them later. And if not that, then he would doubtless be punished for them in the afterlife.
Dende rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath before he began.
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Scargo had known that he was making a stupid move even as he made it, but he could not bring himself to stop. He had crawled out from under the ship in an attempt to see what had happened to the Dragonball when the nearest alien body, that he thought to be surely dead suddenly leapt to its feet and lunged toward him. He shrieked diving to the side even as he knew that it really was all over this time . . .
But this knowledge never came to pass, for his ears caught a sharp impact and a grunt of pain.
"Hold, young one," came an oddly soothing voice, and one that Scargo vaguely recognized. "This one will give you no more trouble."
Nervously, Scargo looked up, and up and up . . . directly into the face of one of his people's warriors, and a tall one at that. It took a moment for recognition to bless him, but when it did, he broke out into a relieved smile even as battles continued to be waged around them.
"Whelk!" He ran up to the older Namek, hugging his leg. Here at last was a true, touchable hope, the first one of his people he had been able to talk to besides Dende in days. And Whelk was the best warrior in the village; he no doubt had things under complete control here. In only a matter of time, everything could be fixed, just as soon as they found Dende and figured out where the Dragonballs had gone. Then everything would be perfect and everyone could just put this nightmare behind them.
Whelk gave him a careful look. "Are you all right, Scargo? And isn't Dende with you?"
Miserably, Scargo shook his head. "He said that we should separate to try and get away. I haven't seen him since before I got out here – Aah!"
In perfect timing with his scream, Whelk looked up and fired a ki blast into the chest of an alien who had taken it upon himself to attack at this exact moment. The alien dropped instantly, smoke rising from the hole blown through his body. Scargo shivered at the very sight, even though it was one of the bad guys; it just wasn't a nice thing to see.
But his shivers did not last long as Whelk abruptly flung him to the ground, and a deafening boom resounded above him. Scargo looked up to see smoke pouring out from a hole in the ship – there were an awful lot of those, now that he took a second to catch sight of it – and a piece of debris falling straight for him.
In a rush of panic, he regained his feet only to dive to the ground once more, landing a few feet away as the large chunk of metal crashed into the earth at his previous position. Normally in a situation like this, Scargo would have sighed in relief, but right now he was too tense and exhausted to do anything more than force himself to stand.
Almost immediately, however, he lunged back under the ship. There was too much going on right now, too much chaos. Things would be a whole lot better if he just went back into hiding for now.
The battle was not over yet.
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Nobody needed to be a genius to see that the ship was utterly doomed. Perhaps if there were anything in the way of decent raw materials on this planet -- which seemed highly unlikely – things could be repaired after this battle. Assuming that they won, of course; he did not know the state of things going on outside.
But just because the ship was doomed, that didn't mean that everyone on it had to suffer the same fate. Like any good ship, there were a quantity of escape pods attached in case of emergency – provided that they had not been damaged. Another assumption that had to be made, though he had to admit that he was pretty good at those. It was part of his profession.
Explosions rumbled behind him, shook the floor under his feet. Once, he had nearly gotten a face full of fiery metal as a blast had punched a hole through the wall directly in front of him.
And he still kept running, searching everywhere he could in order to find those members of the crew that had not joined the fight on the outside. Most of them were still alive, though he did come across a few corpses. He would have liked to do something for them, but there was not time enough for that. More important to worry about the living; the dead had no more concerns.
He shuffled as many people off to escape pods as he could, guiding them along ahead of himself, giving them the order to leave as soon as they reached them. Not being able to follow them yet, he turned back to search for other survivors, and he was running.
Always running.
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Dende continued to speak soft words, those of complete nonsense though that was unknown to his captors. All he had to do was keep pretending for just a little while longer. If he could just keep up this farce of the incantation being long and complex, he still had a chance of getting out of this without the aliens being granted whatever evil wishes they had.
But he quivered as he spoke, having a most unpleasant audience glaring over his shoulder. The shadow over him reminded him of a cloudy night back on Earth, so dark that even the stars could not penetrate the atmosphere. And this made it all the more surreal to see the blazing light of the suns high overhead.
In a way, though, he was sort of glad for the shadow being there. He was not sure how long he had been out here on his feet, whispering words in a dry throat, his mind struggling to make sure that they meant nothing at all. For all of his previous efforts, his brain was a little foggy and wanted to follow the natural inclination to speak in his own tongue. At least without the extra sunlight he could dull the effects of being out in the heat for too long, even if the shadow had only been there for a short time.
"Brat, you're taking too long," Basalt growled behind him.
Dende stiffened, and stopped his phoney incantation for a moment. He swallowed before speaking in a voice that he wished he could have kept strong and steady. "This is the way that it has to be, sir," he tried, swallowing again in an attempt to regain moisture in his throat. This was not the first time that he had been interrupted. "Getting the Dragonballs to work is very complicated. I'm afraid that I'll have to start over again, now – Ungh!"
A sharp blow slammed into his backside, and he tumbled face first to the ground. He didn't move for a moment, trying to draw breath back into his body, but then rolled over to aid in his breathing. Determinedly, he forced his eyes to stay open, staring directly into the cold yellow slits belonging to Basalt. There was no mistaking a look like that; the man had run out of patience with him.
"Don't give me that garbage!" he snarled, and Dende flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as he fired a ki blast toward him.
But no pain came. There was a bright flash at the corner of his eye that left a pattern of purple light on the inside, an instance of searing heat, and a spray of dirt that came over his face. Dende sat up, coughing the dirt out of his mouth even as he mentally sagged in relief. He had really thought that he was dead this time.
Basalt knelt down and jerked him forward by his collar. "I've been listening to what you've been saying in those incantations, brat, and they don't match. If I didn't know better, then I would say that you're trying to scam me."
Dende gulped. He had honestly tried to make the words the same, but that was a difficult thing to do when one was simply making up new words while going along. What had he been thinking doing that? He should have just chanted something in his native language, like some old song or story so that he could have remembered it in the event of repetition. His head was too muddled still to be dealing with a situation like this.
The next blow didn't help him any – a sharp slap to his temple which sent his brain rolling around in his skull. He longed to put a hand up there to steady the world in his vision, but he just didn't seem to have the co- ordination for that kind of precise movement. His hand raised uselessly before dropping back to his side again.
"I would advise you to stop playing games with me, child." It was Basalt's voice once more, as hard and swift as his strikes had been. "That was your last warning. If you don't straighten up right now, then I'm going to kill you."
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The last of them finally fell, a desperate, bloody mess of a thing. It was a hideous yet welcome sight. A battle's end was always a good thing, at least for those who had won it.
Yes, it was all just a matter of perspective, and from his perspective it was indeed a good victory, though the price that it came at was quite high. Of the twenty one warriors who had gathered here at this ship, only ten remained. Their numbers were reduced by just over one half. It was a painful sight to see, even for one such as himself.
Certainly, he liked to be left alone, but that did not mean that he wished for the death of any of his kinsmen. What kind of Namek would he be otherwise? He may have contempt for a few particular people, but for his race in itself, he always held the utmost of respect – even if he often chose not to show it.
Just like he showed nothing of the pain that he felt of the sight of half their number lying strewn across the ground. His lips turned no deeper into a frown than usual, and his eyes neither narrowed, nor stung. At this, the few of his comrades that could manage to look away from their dead brethren offered him scowls. They were doubtless wondering how he didn't care. But no matter. Why should he have to show that he cared, anyway?
He barely spared these a glance as he picked his way casually along the battlefield, stepping around corpses in one place while stepping over them in others. Such disgusting things, corpses were – though again, he showed nothing upon his face. How he felt about things was not the point here. There were other matters to consider.
By the time that he reached the ship, or what remained of it, a child had crawled free of the wreckage, miraculously uninjured. He immediately recognized it as Scargo, and a smirk threatened to take hold of his stoic lips. He avoided it though. Now was not the time for any sort of emotional display. Things were not over yet.
The child was clinging to Whelk's leg, which was almost surprising in a way. He would have figured that Scargo would have clung to Limpet – who was standing by him as well, seemingly not much worse for the wear – if he were going to cling to anyone. Limpet was always the best one with the kids. Whelk was usually too serious to be enjoyed by a child, and he himself . . . Well, he was not the most comforting presence for a child, either.
"He might still be in there," Scargo was saying, his face still buried in Whelk's leg. His voice was muffled by the fabric, but could still be easily heard and understood. "You didn't wreck it too much, did you? He could still be –"
So Dende was still inside the ship, was he? At this, even he almost grimaced. While the ship was not totally destroyed, over half of it was damaged pretty much beyond recognition. Anyone who looked at it would be certain that it had always been a half melted, smoking pile of scrap metal. The further ends of the ship looked to be mostly intact, so if Dende had been in any of that area, he might still be all right . . .
"We really ought to look . . ." Limpet said quietly. Even his voice was subdued by the situation at hand. "It's not impossible."
No, it was not impossible, but the hope was more than slim. Perhaps he should council everyone of this fact before they got their expectations too high. But no. It was not in his nature to initiate a conversation, and he would not break that even now. If asked, then he would give his advice on the matter. If not, he would keep his silence just as he always did.
And anyway, it was not necessarily the end of things should the worst of fates have befallen Dende. This was surely a terrible line of thought, but that did not stop it from flying through his mind. After all, situations such as these were what the Dragonballs were for . . .
The Dragonballs.
That was what he had seen during that brief break in the battle: one of the aliens flying off, with something large tucked under its arm. He hurriedly glanced about, hoping to put lie to his suspicions. How could they have forgotten about the Dragonballs?
It did not take long for his suspicions to be confirmed, but it was not the sight in his immediate area that did it for him. Before he could take everything in here, his eyes were drawn away, to something most terrible indeed. And for once, he broke his code of silence.
"Over there," he said quietly, only faintly aware that he had spoken.
And soon it was not just over there, but all around them. Rolling black clouds that darkened the sky, flashes of light in the distance that meant one thing and one thing alone.
Porunga had been summoned.