David Brin - Heaven's Reach

A shattering crash filled his ears, as a rain of wetness and needlelike shards fell across his back.

The Jophur emitted a shrill ululation. Then someone shouted a fierce warning in the clicking whistles of staccato Galactic Two.

“To let the human go — this you must.

“Or else other young ones — to ruin shall fall!”

The harsh pressure eased off Lark’s rib cage just as consciousness appeared about to waver and blow out. His captor huffed and teetered uncertainly. Peering blearily, Lark saw that slivers of glass dusted the big stack, and moisture lay everywhere. Then he caught sight of Ling, crouching several meters away with a crooked metal bar, brandishing it threateningly in front of another vivarium. Where she had found the tool, he couldn’t guess. But the floor was already strewn with flopping infant rings decanted violently from one of the nurturing mulch towers. Some struggled on vague flippers or undeveloped legs. Midget master rings waved neural feelers, seeking other toroids to dominate.

Lark felt the nursery worker tremble with hesitation.

Noises beyond the doorway indicated that the Polkjhy crew were already at work, unscrambling the door. Clearly, the two fugitive humans weren’t going anywhere.

The Jophur stack decided. It released Lark.

He managed to keep from slumping to the floor, teetering on wobbly knees, feebly raising the purple torus for a clean shot at the pheromone sensors.

In moments, the second worker joined the first in estivation stupor.

Sheesh, Lark pondered. If this was just a tender nurse, I’d hate to meet one of their fighters.

Ling grabbed his arm to keep him from buckling.

“Come on,” she urged. “There’s no time to rest. We’ve got lots to do.”

“What’re you talking about?” Lark tried asking. The question emerged as a gurgling sigh. But Ling refused to let him sink down and rest.

“I think I know a way out of here,” she said urgently. “But it’s going to be an awful tight fit.”

True to her prediction, the cargo container was tiny. Even by scrunching over double, Lark could barely cram himself inside. The purple ring squirmed in the hollow between his rib cage and a wall.

“I still think you should go first,” he complained.

Ling hurriedly punched commands on a complex keypad next to the little supply shuttle. “Do you know how to program one of these things?”

She had a point, though Lark didn’t like it much.

“Besides, we’re heading somewhere unknown. Shouldn’t our best fighter lead the way?”

Now Ling was teasing. Whoever went first would overcome opposition by using Asx’s purple gift, or else fail. Physical strength was nearly useless against a robot or a full-size Jophur.

He glanced past her toward the far door of the nursery, where the red glow of a cutting torch could be seen, slicing an arched opening from the other side. Apparently, Rann and the Jophur had given up unscrambling the lock and decided on a brute-force approach.

“You’ll hurry after me?”

For an answer, she bent and kissed him — once on the forehead in benediction, and again, passionately, on the mouth. “How is that for a promise?” she asked, mingling her breath with his.

As Ling backed away, a transparent hatch slid over the little cab — built to carry equipment and samples between workstations throughout the Jophur ship. There had been a crude version of such a system back at Biblos, the Jijoan archive, where cherished paper books and messages shuttled between the libraries in narrow tubes of boo.

“Hey!” he called. “Where are you sending m—”

A noise and brilliant flash cut off his question and made Ling spin around. The torch cutter was accelerating, as if the enemy somehow sensed a need to hurry. To Lark’s horror, the arc was over half finished.

“Let me out!” he demanded. “We’re switching places!”

Ling shook her head as she resumed programming the console. “Not an option. Get ready. This will be wrenching.”

Before Lark could protest a second time, the wall section abruptly fell with a crash. Curt billowings of sparks and dense smoke briefly filled the vestibule. But soon, Jophur warriors would come pouring through … and Ling didn’t even have a weapon!

Lark hammered on the clear panel as several things happened in rapid succession.

Ling knelt to the floor, where scores of infant traeki rings still squirmed in confusion amid shards of their broken vivarium. She emptied her cloth sling, gently spilling Asx’s second gift — the wounded crimson torus — to mingle among the others.

A tall silhouette passed through the roiling cloud to stand in the glowing doorway. The wedgelike torso was unmistakably Rann, leader of the Danik tribe of human renegades sworn to Rothen lords.

Ling stood. She glanced over her shoulder at Lark, who pounded the hatch, moaning frustration and fear for her.

Calmly, she reached for the keypad.

“No! Let me out! I’ll—”

Acceleration kicked suddenly. Lark’s folded body slammed one wall of the little car.

Ling’s face vanished in a blur as he was swept away toward Ifni-knew-where.

ARE THEY REALLY GONE?”

Dwer bent close to an ancient, pitted window. He peered at a glittering starscape, feeling some of the transmitted chill of outer space, just a finger’s breadth away.

“I don’t see any sign of ’em over here,” he called back to Rety. “Is it clear on your side?”

His companion — a girl about fourteen, with a scarred face and stringy hair — pressed against another pane at the opposite end of the dusty chamber, once the control room of a sleek vessel, but now hardly more than a grimy ruin.

“There’s nothin’—unless you count the bits an’ pieces floatin’ out there, that keep fallin’ off this rusty ol’ bucket.”

Her hand slammed the nearest bulkhead. Streams of dust trickled from crevices in prehistoric metal walls.

The starship’s original owners must have been oddly shaped, since the viewing ports were arrayed at knee height to a standing human, while corroded instruments perched on tall pillars spread around the oblong room. Whatever race once piloted this craft, they eventually abandoned it as junk, over half a million years ago, when it was dumped onto a great pile of discarded hulks in the dross midden that lay under Jijo’s ocean.

Immersion in subicy water surely had preserving effects. Still, the Streaker crew had accomplished a miracle, reviving scores of these wrecks for one final voyage. It made Rety’s remark seem unfair, all considered.

There is air in here, Dwer thought. And a machine that spits out a paste we can eat … sort of. We’re holding death at bay. For the moment.

Not that he felt exactly happy about their situation. But after all the narrow escapes of the last few days, Dwer found continued life and health cause for surprised pleasure, not spiteful complaint.

Of course, Rety had her own, unique way of looking at things. Her young life had been a lot harder than his, after all.

“i sniff every corner of this old boat,” a small voice piped, speaking Anglic with a hissing accent and a note of triumph. “no sign of metal monsters, none! we scare them off!”

The speaker trotted across the control room on four miniature hooves — a quadruped with two slim centauroid arms and an agile, snakelike neck. Holding his head up proudly, little yee clattered over to Rety and slipped into her belt pouch. The two called each other “husband and wife,” an interspecies union that made some sense to another Jijoan but would have stunned any citizen of the Civilization of Five Galaxies. The verbose urrish male and an unbathed, prepubescent human female made quite a pairing.