Chapter 2

Chapter 2

    Communications stood nearly motionless at the head of the translucent black spaceship, lit only by the faint purple life-light of the dormant vessel. The young one had darkened his membrane many years past and saw no reason to shed his own light now. Form after form of data grew up from the smooth crystal consol before him and flowed by his headless body. His shoulders sloped up to a rounded peak and his base pseudopods grew into the living crystal of the ship. Both grasping palps rested lightly on the sides of the consol carefully guiding the flow of information. Every so often his extremities would extend a long thin talon to flick out and mark some irregularity in the flow.
    The small skirmish that their leader had initiated on the blue world below was going exactly according to plan and the former noble was observing from his private communications hub. Very few of their limited resources were dedicated to the battle. This was only a feint. Fealltoir was fairly certain that the human governments, at least a few of the more powerful ones were giving the Rathu far more assistance than the simple political asylum that they claimed. His observance was to be a test of that; one he would not trust even to his most trusted officer. If it proved true that the humans were violating the non-aggression treaty that would make the leaders goals that much easier to reach. So far nothing had manifested itself that would suggest his suspicions had been confirmed. So the lower ranked Ceannairian watched and waited, and as he did he kept up a string of non-critical maintenance tasks.
    Such duties were alien to him in general. He had been programmed and trained for data management from the moment he had budded. Scheduling subordinates duty rosters, interpreting the automated maintenance logs, distributing punishments to slacking crewmembers; all of these tasks were to domain of the administrative castes but very few had joined the rebellion, and even fewer had been caught up in the purge that had driven them from their home world. Of those none had survived the journey, unable to adapt to the harsh realities outside of their cloistered existences. Songmaster had accepted the duties as easily as he had the mantel of a scientist and had preformed them capably. However with the traitorous Ceannairian banished the task had fallen to the former third in command along with a promotion.  
    So Communications suppressed his distaste and sifted the minute details through his thought matrix, searching for irregularities. At one point he stopped the stream for several seconds to study a particular reading. The Ceannairian began to probe deeper into the ships records. More irregularities followed the first like the growth of a crystal. After a time the Cea silently left his post. Equally silently a Tender stepped up to take his place.
    Communications strode through the dark corridors of the Ship. Tenders ducked out of his way as the tactical officer passed, humming in fearful respect as they pressed into the walls. The Ceannairian ignored them, not giving any sign that he was aware of his surroundings until he stopped before a sealed portal deep in a deserted section of the massive vessel. This sector had been badly damaged shortly after leaving Lar and the lack of resources available to them meant that it had never fully healed.
    He reached out with his forelimbs and forced the warped membranes open. They slowly spiraled back and he stepped into a near empty cargo bay. The bulkheads showed clearly the damage they had taken, their surfaces charred and flaking, dying slowly, a dark prophecy of what awaited the rest of the ship in the none to distant future. Ruptured fluid vessels and flayed crystalline nerves stuck out of the membrane surfaces at all angles. The random dripping of fluids would have been enough to annoy even the most insensitive of Ceas; Communications felt every discordant note acutely and a shiver of revulsion passed over his membrane.
    Dismissing the dark feel of the place the small Ceannairian strode over to an available consol and brought up the maintenance records. There was substantial damage to the superstructure here that only prolonged dry-dock on Lar itself could ever hope to fix, but it quickly became clear that there was more to this than a few failed membranes and struts. Basic maintenance had never been preformed, maintenance that would have greatly prolonged the useful life of the area, maintenance that the banished Songmaster would have been in charge of as third in command.
    Communications turned from the flickering display and walked cautiously over to the far wall. Another irregularity; the chamber was too small. He carefully examined what appeared to be a random fissure in the buckled crystal of the membrane. With the utmost care he extended multiple long sensitive sensory appendages from his grasping pseudopod and inserted them into the crack. He detected and deactivated no less than three booby-traps, then pressed a small sensory area hidden there.  As he did he wondered how the culprit had managed this. The Songmaster was not especially skilled at tactile manipulation
    The outer membrane of the wall folded away to reveal a small escape pod. The craft had obviously been heavily modified after it had grown enough for its function to be decided. Such a vessel was difficult to monitor accurately under the best of conditions. Where it had been damaged and healed unassisted it was exponentially more difficult to determine what was going on.  This pod was dark in dormancy but even so the scars that ran over its hull were visible. Several lithium sulfide lines fed into ports on the side of the pod humming with energy. Here was the odd power drain that had drawn his attention. A power drain that the Songmaster had been concealing since the Ship had departed Lar.  
    The Ceannairian let mild annoyance flicker over his membrane in a wave of ridges. The caustic and manipulative second in command had been a powerful asset from the beginning of the revolution, but his duplicitous ways had also made him a dangerous tool for Fealltoir to use. The science-caste ranger had proved impossible to control and their arrival on Earth had seemed the perfect opportunity to test and dispose of the problem. However the cunning scientist had outmaneuvered them, a burning shame to Communications, and fled to the planet blow. That might have been the end of it but the clever Lar had quickly insinuated himself with a cadre of rather dangerous humans and managed to gather the resources he needed to survive. Twice now he had made his way back to the ship for supplies and twice he had been repelled. Their security had tightened but regardless, it would not do to leave this resource for the traitor to find if his next attempt was successful.
    Communications carefully analyzed the situation before lifting his pseudopod and extending several fingers. The digits flew over the surface as he terminated power to the device. Yet, to his surprise, once the pod was disconnected scans still showed energized lithium sulfide inside. The tactical officer carefully ran his senses over the small space. Opening the pod would be a very bad idea at this point. Songmaster was infamous for the ingenuity and cruelty of his traps and whatever was in the pod was live. Finally finding what he desired he picked up a data crystal that was hidden beneath the pod and scanned through it.
    For the briefest of moments surprise stiffened the implacable Ceannairian’s membranes to smooth rigidity. He reached out and touched the pod almost reverently. Another Larian might have let anger cloud his colors but Communications had formed his place in life, both before and after the rebellion by maintaining his control. He began to probe deeper into the mystery before him. Songmaster had been wise to hide his actions; the majority of the Ceannairians would have balked at such deeds. Fealltoir would never have sanctioned such studies.
    Quickly Communications compiled all the data and sent it to their leader in a compressed data burst. Seconds ticked by as he waited for the Ceannairian to respond. Finally the awaited answer came flickering through the communication pathways. Communications stiffened again. For perhaps the first time in his existence the ranger considered questioning the orders of the being he had devoted his existence to for so long.
    Ever since they had been banished from their home world their numbers had been steadily dwindling. There were no anchored cores among their number to reproduce, and certainly no way to create a successful pool in the damaged ship. The stress of the social isolation told deeply on the crew and the drive to avenge themselves on the corrupt Imperial Guard they persuade could only sustain the makeshift cadre for so long.
     However the impulse was quickly crushed. Calmly Communications gave the necessary orders to Ship. Cilia extended haltingly from the damaged walls and reached out to cradle the vessel. The pod was carefully moved to an outer hold and vented into space.  
#
   
     Perhaps it was chance, perhaps something more, that guided the pod on its short journey. Some long dormant program woke as the small vessel fell down into the gravity well of the blue planet. The living engine within coughed to life and spread electromagnetic shields across the undersurface while stabilizing the spin.  The base of the pod followed the direction of the shields and spread out into atmospheric wings. The great magnetic field of the planet caught the shields and sent the pod skipping across the upper atmosphere like a stone across a pond. The natural curves of the field guided the craft towards the northern pole. The shields twisted and wove, sending the pod and its occupants in a lazy spiral down towards the safety of the planet’s surface below. But the old power source had had no one to tend it for a very long time, and the struggling finally faltered. Gravity won out over the dying engines and the craft plummeted. This struggle might have gone entirely unnoticed were it not for chance, or something else, intervening again.
    *Romeo Alpha, Sierra Tango,* a man’s voice crackled over the radio. *Please tell me you see that.*
    *Sierra Tango, Romeo Alpha. Roger that. But what is that?* A woman’s voice answered.
     Two Piper Navajo Chieftain’s cruised over the Bering Strait. Their silver white bodies were highlighted with forest green and aquamarine striping. The pilots, normally chatting away on the long flight to Russia were both intently focused on a very strange falling star.
    *I don’t have a clue. It’s coming down fast but definitely controlled. Not a burnt out satellite. Not a plane and not showing up on my radar. Yours?”
    *As far as my instruments are concerned there is nothing there.*
    *Help me get a triangulation coordinates and then we’ll call this in to the Coast Guard.*
    *Shouldn’t the fancy stuff D.A.R.P.A. has be able to track that anyway?*
    *Maybe, but if our instruments aren’t picking it up maybe not. We’ll do our bit anyway.”
    *Roger that Boss.*
    A few moments of silence followed.
    *Hey Boss? Are you getting what I’m getting?*
    *Whatever that is it’s headed straight for Diomede Island.*
     *But which one?*
    Both pilots were old enough to remember the Cold War and long dormant fears began to creep up their backs.
    *It doesn’t matter to us. I’ll just radio this into the Coast Guard and we’ll be on our merry way. These Christmas presents aren’t going to deliver themselves. Romeo Alpha out.*
    *Sierra Tango clear.*
    To the north of the two nervous pilots the pod finally gave out its last gasp of energy and fell to rest on the larger of two small islands, unaware of the history that separated them far more that the thin strip of frozen sea.

#  

    Thousands of miles away in the rough, broken canyon lands of Siberia flashes of lightening lanced through the thick taiga. Higher in the light frequencies, beyond the range of human sight voices carried.
    *Sever, head down the left canyon five hundred yards,* Commander Bard ordered.
     Light gleamed out of the eyes of a massive grizzly bear that clung impossibly to the sheer rock wall of a canyon, his hide blending into the granite almost seamlessly. Below him spread out a thick green canopy with a few patches that had been uprooted by some sudden violence.
    A small thought traced around the edges of his awareness. That would mean more work for Biologist Love. She had been looking forward to her days off for some time, now…  He felt a flicker of grief and forced it back. This was not the time to be thinking of his human poolmates who were safe back at the base.  He refocused on the task at hand, on his poolmates here, engaged with the Ceannairian warriors and in immediate danger.
    *There should be a path you can take to gain high ground on the Tenders. Bludgeon and I will circle around and meet up with you at the pass.*  
    *Understood Bole,* the second in command replied curtly. *Miller, cover me.*
    *Bard be careful. I’m reading reinforcements coming in from the west,* Healer warned over the longer frequencies.
    *Thank you old friend,* the Commander responded.
    Back in the old wooden hanger that served at their base here on Earth the medic flashed his membrane red and white in agitation, a habit he had picked up from the base medical staff when it was fully stocked with humans and their ambulances, while staring grimly at the consol in front of him. He was keeping only his base bipedal form now, with all of his attention focused on the display. To the watching humans he looked for all the world like some child’s play dough representation of a man, scaled up to two stories tall. Before the watcher six blue life signals glowed, clearly outnumbered among dozens of violet Ceannairian indicators.
    He let his awareness flicker over the portal generator, resting primed but useless in the center of the hanger. The six directional crystals glowed a warm purple in their half charged state; ready to create the safe passage home for the warriors but unable to summon the seventh that would complete the fractal symmetry.
    *Bard,* the medic said with trepidation, *The Ceas are broadcasting interference over an impossibly large area. We cannot portal you out and I estimate it will take at least eight hours for you to clear the area on the ground.*
    There was a pause on the other end of the speaker. Bell could almost hear the crystals growing, shattering, and reforming in the Commander’s thought matrix; calculating safety, escape, combat. And the constant thread that he knew wound around the warrior’s awareness at all times. Why? Why had the leader of a rebellion against a rigid caste system followed them this far, renewed the war after so long on an alien world? Fealltoir’s choices made no sense to the gentle hybrid, perhaps his ranging core would have understood. Then the Bard would ruthlessly force that thought to the back of his matrix and refocus on the battle in front of him. This was not a situation the ranger desired or comprehended, but it was the one he had to deal with.
    *Understood Healer. Maintain constant contact.*
    The voice was firm but traced with weariness and Bell could only hope that this battle it would not distract the commander from his duties fatally. The healer’s attention cycled down from the close monitoring and he noted a soft whirling noise, and turned to locate it.
    On the observation platform running around the interior of the old hanger Drake sat on an office chair. His back was ramrod straight and his face impassive under his auburn hair. The only sign of his nervousness was the battered blue dirt bike helmet spinning in his hands. The Healer glanced at him and felt a spark of compassion for the young human. The other human children had scampered off to ‘adventure’ but had fallen asleep in one of the safe areas quickly enough.
    Eventually Biologist Love or Doctor O’Beirne would appear to escort them to their alternate caretaker. According to the security cameras the older female human had arrived back at the barn - without tripping the perimeter alarms again – shards, he was going to figure out how the wizened old crone did that one of these days. She now sat dozing in a stiff backed chair outside the chicken shed, leaning over her gnarled walking stick. The woman he only knew as Abulita had managed to earn Amadahy’s trust, no easy thing, so the healer accepted her presence but even by human standards she was cast-less and he was glad she was still restricted to the civilian areas. Then his thought processes circled back to the human at hand.
    Bell cast his mind about quickly trying to find something useful for Drake to do. The human’s living area, the raised platform they had claimed when not at their own spacious abode, was spotless. Every piece of equipment that a member of the smaller species could manage was already organized thanks to the young man. Bell allowed himself the luxury of forming a small smile on his face. These situations were all too common he was afraid, and the human’s tendency to distract himself with productive activities didn’t leave much undone around the base. Crafter was busy down in the pool, where the heat and pressure that the Larians preferred precluded the human’s presence, as were the rest of the poolmates. The younger humans had already fallen dormant in their sleeping bags and required none of their elders’ attention.
    A flashing indicator claimed the Healer’s attention, distracting him. He was about to respond, but hesitated.
    “Drake, answer that for me,” Bell snapped out.
    The human jumped instantly to his feet and ran over to the secondary controls. He stroked the clear crystal and watched in undimmed fascination as the center came alive with color and shape, forming into a qwerty keyboard. The youth pulled up the programs to scramble his voice and image and stood a little straighter as the screen crackled to life.
    “Commander!” Colonel Thomas’s low dangerous voice barked out of the speakers.
    Bell sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the impulse that had made him turn the call over to the human. As much as the old human warrior had worked for their good on this planet the energy he gave off was positively painful.
    “Colonel Thomas,” Drake replied calmly, “the boys are occupied right now. Can I take a message?”
    “McCarty? Look this is really important. I need to speak to the Commander,” the Officer insisted, his dark skin wrinkling in annoyance.
     Drake could see the old man wasn’t doing well. There were bags under his eyes and his uniform was rumpled from days of wear. But in his eyes was a frantic urgency.
    “Sorry Thomas, but he’s in the kitchen at the moment, with the main team and everyone else except the Doctor is below,” the young man explained, feeling a glow of pride at getting to use the code words.
    “Shard,” Thomas growled. “How long until dinner’s done?”
    “The Doctor says at least eight hours,”
    “McCarty, I’ve got three separate missions going simultaneously, all of which involve the Cult. Probably Songmaster stirring things up, given that two are kidnappings. You know they’ve been unmanageable ever since that idiot took to feeding their egos. And now the Kremlin and D.C. are breathing down my back to take care of something. Every man I’ve got with the proper clearance is tied up. I need the Team now.”
    “Well they’re a bit busy trying not to get killed by their Opponents,” Drake pointed out.
    Thomas let out a growl of frustration and slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. He stared intently out into space for a moment and the youth fancied he could see the sharp mind whirling behind his dark eyes. Drake felt a prickle of excitement and foreboding run up his spine. When the old soldier got that look, things happened. Suddenly Thomas glanced up sharply at the young man and smiled wolfishly.
    “So, how’s your Russian, Smith?”