Desolator: Book 2 (Stellar Conquest) (3 page)

“As long as they serve the war effort, you mean. In twenty years we’ll each have a dozen or two kids lined up like Matryoshka dolls, and not long after that some of them might be dying in combat – not to mention my husband.”

Jill leaned over to put her hand on her friend’s arm. She wanted to say,
this is what it means to be a military wife.
Instead she replied, “We all hope we’ll live to see this Meme threat ended. The only way we’ll do that is by beating them so badly they’ll leave us alone. But don’t worry, it will be a long time before they show up.”

Daniela pushed food here and there on her plate, but did not meet Jill’s eyes.

Say nothing
, he willed, and Chirom, after a long stare, looked back down at his fellow council members without comment. Trissk let out a hiss of relief.
I will have to speak to Chirom soon, to assure him I am no spy. Actually…I am a spy
, he admitted to himself,
but not for any nefarious purpose
.

“Why is Desolator doing that?” whined Kirst’aa. “It always uses the photonic drive.”

Chirom was unsure whether she meant Desolator the AI or
Desolator
the ship, though many times they were synonymous. “It does, unless it must maneuver into a system. Let us go to the tap-room at once.” Without formally closing the meeting he led the way from the open space of the meeting chamber – just an old, empty cargo bay – down the cold dingy corridors Desolator allowed them, and into the only place they might get answers.

The rest followed after, more slowly.

The tap-room was covered with cobbled-together technology: flatscreens, touchscreens, a few holoprojectors, keyboards, and controls of every sort in a jumble only a technologist could sort out. In the best control center they had, the devices here connected via myriad shunts – taps – to the ship’s systems, leeching information here and there from the cybernetic nerves of the ship’s AI. Occasionally Desolator’s repair drones removed a tap, but it never said anything to the Ryss about them. Perhaps on some level even an insane computer accepted its charges’ need to acquire information.

Other feeds came from independent sensors laboriously placed about the great ship’s skin – or at least those parts open to space, which was not always the same thing. Between the two systems the clans retained some semblance of belief that they might someday control their own destiny.

“What can be seen?” the Kirst’aa asked peevishly, squinting her near-blind eyes.

“A gas giant, Eldest Mother,” replied the technologist on duty. “Desolator has detected fusion and electromagnetics. We are searching with long-range optics but…” The young female spread her claws helplessly. “If we could salvage another stabilizer…”

“If, if, if. If we did that, Desolator might object, and take back all your toys,” the old Ryss hissed.

“You have done well, Klis,” Chirom broke in, stepping between the Eldest Mother and the technologist. “Please continue to search, and let us know what you may find. We will be in the warm-room. Come, Eldest. You must be tired.”

Trissk watched the interplay from the open doorway, fading back as the five elders swept past him, heading for the central living space of the Ryss. The warm-room was the one area that maintained a comfortable temperature, next to one of
Desolator
’s few functioning fusion reactors. After they left he stepped into the tap-room.

“Ho, Trissk.”

“Ho, Klis.” He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. The sleek young tech would soon come into her first fertility, as he was acutely aware.
She also finds me pleasing. I would give anything if she will glorify me first
, he thought; but for all his usual glibness, he could not make words come.

A paw fell on his shoulder, claws digging in insultingly. Trissk snarled and rounded on the owner, a large yearsmane called Vusk.

“Ho, there, orphan youngling,” Vusk said with snide confidence. “No need to jump. Just thought I’d say hello to my Promised.” He smiled a closed-mouth grin at Klis, for of course showing teeth meant something else entirely.

“I’m not your Promised, Vusk.” Klis said demurely, batting her long lashes at the bigger male. “And it’s not Trissk’s fault his dam was killed in the war.”

“Of course, pretty one.” Turning to Trissk, Vusk made waving motions with the backs of his digits. “You may go now.”

Trissk hissed between his fangs and turned to leave the tap-room. Unless he was willing to challenge Vusk to personal combat, there seemed little he could do about his rival.

“Farewell, Trisski,” the mocking voice of Vusk floated after him. Then, faintly to Klis: “Don’t worry about that maneless wonder. I’ll keep you company. What were the Decrepit Ones so excited about, anyway?”

Klis’ reply was lost in the groaning and humming of the battered ship as Trissk stomped down the corridor toward the warm-room.
Why does she tolerate him? Why does she not order him away? Females choose whom they will. What does Vusk have that she wants? Besides size and maturity and confidence and good looks and a long thick mane…

He forced thoughts of Klis and Vusk out of his head and turned his mind to
Desolator
’s situation, and his eavesdropping. Perhaps he could catch Chirom’s eye for a private audience and explain.

Rounding a corner, he got his wish as he ran headlong into the elder. Seeing him, Chirom grasped the younger Ryss’ shoulders and pulled him into a side corridor, pinning him up against the wall. “You were spying,” he accused, shaking Trissk in his grip.

“Yes, Elder, but only because I wish to know what is going on. I meant no harm.”

Chirom let him go with another shake, holding up a pawful of naked claws. “I really should mark you where you stand, that you not forget your place.” Retracting his natural weapons with a stern glare, he relaxed slightly in the narrow space. “You still must explain yourself.”

“Perhaps somewhere more private?”
Bold, Trissk, but I must seize this opportunity
.

“Perhaps.” Chirom eyed the adolescent. “You know such a place?” Privacy was difficult to find in the small warm section Desolator allotted them, which was why the Council of Elders met in a dim chill cargo bay.

“I do, but it is cold.”

“Everything is cold,” Chirom responded, fastening his worksuit collar higher beneath his impressive mane.

Trissk led Chirom down narrow side corridors until he stood in front of an old, non-functioning lift. Removing a mechanical key from around his neck, the younger Ryss unlocked the doors, then forced them open with a flip of a small crowbar from his work pouch, revealing an empty shaft beyond. “Down the ladder,” he motioned, exchanging the bar for a paw-light.

Once they both hung on the rungs, Trissk used a lever to close the doors again and locked them from the inside, then led Chirom down the ladder three decks, toward the skin of the ship. A short, debris-cluttered corridor led to his pathetic workshop. Salvaged equipment filled one wall, and his cobbled workbench the other. Their breath hung in the freezing air, and Trissk grabbed two blankets, handing his elder one of them.

“You should not have this place,” Chirom chided without anger as he wrapped his shoulders. “Desolator might object.”

“We both know the threat from the AI is overstated. Eldest Mother calls it paranoid but it has never punished us, only taken away what it does not like. It is a machine; it has no morals. It does not get angry, it merely corrects what it sees as a problem. We could – we
should
do much more than we do. We should test the limits of what Desolator allows.” Trissk forced his lips over his teeth with deliberate humility. “I am trusting you by showing you this place, Elder. I know you will not betray me.”

“That remains to be seen.” Chirom looked deliberately disapproving, then relented. “I will not, for now. But I am responsible for the Rell clan, and for what Ryss remain. You must tell me what you know.”

Admiral Absen stepped onto
Conquest
’s bridge for the first time in over a year. Without a fleet, flag officers aboard were usually superfluous. In any case he was kept very busy with administrative matters, as the military governor of the human population in the Gliese 370 system. Almost a million resided on on Afrana, with fifty thousand on the planet’s moon Enoi running the pseudo-Von Neumann factories.

Waving Mirza back to The Chair, he said, “It’s your ship, Captain. The General and I are just here for the politics, if any.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mirza said with obvious relief. “We’ve held off on hailing them, and they haven’t made any signal to us that we can detect.”

“Nothing at all? Johnstone?” Absen addressed the CyberComm officer with an upraised eyebrow.

“Nothing at all that we recognize as a signal, sir. The Meme use radio and laser comms just like we do, ditto the Sekoi,” Rick answered, using the proper name for the Hippos out of respect for General Kullorg’s hulking presence. “Functionally there aren’t many choices out in space, but the only electromagnetics we get off of the vessel is infrared from some hot spots. We actually don’t know whether those represent something designed, or are residual, perhaps from damaged reactors.”

“But it maneuvered.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Okuda at Helm. “Data from the
Temasek
shows it was almost at rest relative to the star when it was first detected, and then accelerated slowly just after a patrolling fighter shone a ranging laser at it. It’s stopped accelerating now, though, and it will be over fifteen hours before it reaches Reta.”

General Kullorg laughed, and said in his thick, rumbling accent, “Why we have hurried, then?”

Absen laughed as well, to let the bridge crew know the Hippo was genuinely amused.

To humans, the huge aliens tended to come across as rather sinister and intimidating, but he had learned they actually looked at life with an enormous sense of humor. Of course, he was only acquainted with their military and ruling classes of Sekoi Blends – what the Meme called Underlings – and not the pure natives of Afrana.

The Hippos called their planet Koio. Sighing, Absen thought once again that it was almost like having four races instead of two – humans, Hippos, and the devolved-Meme Blends of each.

“To answer that, I’m sure Master-Helm Okuda would tell us that we don’t know how fast this thing can move. Perhaps it’s coming in slow as a sign of peaceful intent, giving us time to check it out. Commander Johnstone,” Absen said, turning toward the CyberComm station, “I presume you have some kind of hailing package prepared?”

“Yes, sir. I dug out the First Contact protocols and used them as a template. It has files that build up a language from mathematics in several different formats, including digital, analog, visual, logic code and so on. Then it tells them the basics of who humans are, who Sekoi are, and emphasizes that we are not Meme, and asks who they are. There is a parallel file in Meme code in case they understand that.”

Absen looked at his Hippo counterpart, who nodded. “Send the package.”

“Aye, sir. Package sent. We are over six light-minutes away.”

“Then we have minimum twelve agonizing minutes to entertain us,” boomed the General. Taking out a cigar the size of a rolling pin, he asked, “Does anyone here like the smoke?”

It was Absen’s turn to laugh. “Crank up the scrubbers,” he ordered as he took out his lighter and the last packet he had of precious Earth-packed cigarillos. After this, it would be harsh native-grown Sekoi tobacco. Perhaps he could get them to roll some small enough for humans.

More than thirteen smoky minutes passed before they heard any response. Abruptly Johnstone put a hand to his head, at first a psychosomatic gesture as information flowed into his link. It became more real as pain blossomed in his cranium, causing him to convulsively yank out his link connections. Eyes streaming, his fingers flew rapidly over his console. “Information attack!” he barked. “Unlink! Shutting down…oh, hell.”

Linked bridge crew yanked theirs out also and went to manual control. Master Helmsman Okuda was slower than the rest, too accustomed to the medusa above his head that held his multiple cables. Convulsions rippled through his body and his eyes rolled up.

While others sat there stunned, Chief Steward Tobias, Absen’s bodyguard, reacted with cybernetic speed. Leaping into the helmsman’s cockpit, he ripped the cluster of fibers from Okuda’s skull-plugs, immediately hauling him up and laying him down onto the deck. Blood trickled from the sockets.

“What just happened?” Captain Mirza snapped.

“That ship out there sent a sophisticated multilevel info-viral assault,” Johnstone replied. “I’ve shut down all wideband comms and initiated ICE throughout our systems, but…” Suddenly the bridge lurched and swung on its gimbals, and the gravplates flickered, causing everyone to grab for stanchions.

“Buckle in,” Absen ordered, sitting down at an empty station. “General, I suggest you wedge yourself into the corner there as best you can.”

“We’re moving,” Ford called from Weapons. Without a helmsman, his console became automatic backup for maneuvering. “I have no control,” he growled, slamming at the buttons.

Behind him Chirom paced restlessly; in that impatience the two Ryss seemed alike. “You are sure Desolator will not interfere?”

“I am sure of nothing, Elder. I only know I have ventured into this area many times to salvage equipment and it has never paid me any mind. It is the best location to emplace the communicator.”