Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

Notwithstanding their predicament, it was another piece of seemingly innocuous information that settled uneasily upon her mind. The satellite had reset the console’s time and date display to Universal Standard Time. Without her wristpad, which Ravana assumed had been confiscated by the nurses, she had long ago lost track of the passing days. The display revealed she had been away from the dig longer than she thought. Two weeks had passed since her fateful visit to meet the supply ship at Arallu Depot. The archaeology team would now be on their way back from meeting the returned Sir Bedivere and with a sinking heart she realised her father would have waited in vain for her promised follow-up call.

“Rats,” she muttered.

“Thraak thraak?”

“No, it’s not looking good at all.”

A noise behind drew their attention to Artorius and Stripy, who were both now awake and staggering bleary-eyed around the dimly-lit cabin. The young grey also wore cut-off overalls, but for some reason had them on back-to-front. Ravana watched as Artorius helped himself to another packet of rations without offering one to anyone else.

“Fwack!” exclaimed Stripy, holding out a hand and looking indignant.

“Yes, I know.” Ravana sighed. “No manners at all.”

“Do you understand them?” Artorius asked, spitting food as he spoke.

“Not a screech,” she admitted, then remembered something the boy had said back at the clinic. “Can you? You told me the nurses made you ask them questions.”

“I can give you the translation program,” offered Artorius. “We can link implants.”

Ravana opened her mouth to object, ever cautious whenever the subject of implants arose, then realised he had gone ahead anyway. A new image popped into her mind, one that for a moment looked like a chess piece for a knight but instead quickly transformed into an hour glass. She wondered what her own implant icon looked like inside Artorius’ head.

“All I see is a timer,” Ravana told him. “Filled with yet more sand,” she added in a mutter, gazing at the endless dark desert outside the window. Just for a moment she thought she saw a distant silver shape and two tiny yellow eyes glowing in the darkness of the dunes. She shook her head and dismissed it as a figment of her stressed imagination.

“It’s coming!” Artorius said grumpily.

Ravana waited, somewhat hypnotised by the animated hour glass. Artorius looked cross and screwed up his eyes in fierce concentration.

“Still waiting,” she told him.

“Why isn’t it working?” complained Artorius.

“Have you tried switching it off and on again?”

“My implant?”

“No, your brain,” snapped Ravana, feeling a headache coming on. “Artorius, we need to talk. Last night I was angry, tired and desperate to get out of that creepy place and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing you with me. What did the clones want with you?”

“Clones?” Artorius looked puzzled.

“The monks. Brother Simha and Dhanus.”

“I saw two men in cloaks but the nurses kept me away from them.”

“Why were you locked up like that?” she asked. Her irritation was not helped by the hour-glass symbol still hovering in her mind. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Eaten by a dinosaur.”

“Don’t joke about something like that!” scolded Ravana. She gave him a reproving look, but his expression was both sad and serious.

“It’s the truth!” he protested. “A robot Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

“What?” she asked, then bit her lip. “Oh, I see. Was that on Avalon?”

Artorius nodded glumly and went back to shovelling food into his mouth. Avalon was a terraformed moon of the gas giant Thule in the Alpha Centauri system. It was home to a variety of hit holovid shows, first and foremost being the long-running Gods of Avalon , in which third-rate celebrities took part in bizarre challenges in a land populated by cybernetic gods and monsters controlled by the votes of a vengeful audience. Ravana recalled that a spin-off show Quest for Fire had a prehistoric theme and stories often hit the news of ground crews being attacked by malfunctioning robots. The Alpha Centauri system had no government as such and the Avalon Broadcasting Corporation was a prime example of what happened when a big media company was given a free rein to chase ratings as it pleased.

“You should have the translator now,” said Artorius, interrupting her thoughts.

The animated hour glass in her thoughts had gone. Ravana brought up the implant control menu in her mind’s eye and saw a new icon in the shape of a pair of grey lips outlined in red. She gave the image a mental prod and the outline became green.

“Hey, Stripy,” Ravana said. She gave the young grey a friendly tap. “Say something.”

“Fwack?”

She had expected a literal audio translation, but instead her implant reacted to the grey’s utterance by flashing a series of vague images through her thoughts that suggested less poking and more food was the order of the day. Ravana looked at Artorius in awe.

“Wow,” she murmured. “That’s incredible!”

“Fwack fwack!”

“How did anyone manage to come up with something like this?”

Artorius shrugged, not seeming to care.

“But I could understand them! Stripy wants something to eat!”

“Thraak thraak,” added Nana.

“And Nana hates mushrooms!”

“Thraak thraak!” Nana repeated firmly.

“Well, if you don’t like them, it’ll have to be the nut roast again.”

The images created by the implant translator left Ravana feeling dizzy. The greys were more human-like by the minute and she was having to constantly revise her preconceptions of the mysterious creatures. Still somewhat dazed following the translator revelation, she turned up the interior lights and left her seat to fetch a selection of rations from the overhead locker. Artorius finished eating and hopped into the vacated driver’s chair to examine for himself the navigation computer display. It was not lost on Ravana that he still had not told her why he had been at the dome, locked in a cell.

“Breakfast,” she said, handing a couple of ration packs to Nana and Stripy.

She still had a million questions to put to Artorius, not to mention the greys, but had awoken from her slumber feeling distinctly grubby. She could not remember the last time she had a bath, her hair felt disgusting and she was very conscious of how bad she smelt. During her earlier trip to the toilet she discovered the transport had a shower cubicle and she was looking forward to a long soak.

“Where are you going?” asked Artorius, as she retreated to the end of the cabin.

“I need to wash that place out of my hair,” she replied. “Then we talk.”

An hour later, Ravana felt refreshed and ready to face the world once more. She took great pleasure in discarding the clinic’s green smock into the waste disposal unit and now wore a pair of the tatty but clean overalls and a pair of boots she had found in the locker, her damp hair wrapped in a towel from the shower room. She persuaded Artorius to use the shower in turn, during which she took the opportunity to study the navigation charts further over a bite to eat as she tried to come up with a plan of action.

The scanner had once again picked up a signal on the edge of its range. The satellite identified it as belonging to some sort of vehicle, though whoever rode inside appeared to be in no hurry to come closer. Switching on the transport’s short-range communicator gave only the hiss of static, adding to the overall sense of isolation.

Once Artorius finished in the shower, Ravana gathered them together in the rear of the transport, herself on the opposite bench seat to the others. Artorius looked quite comical in a pair of adult-sized overalls with the sleeves and legs rolled up.