The Xenocide Mission Read online

  ‘It’s all yours,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’ She sits down in the chair and breathes relief. ‘This gravity! How do you get used to it?’ Her skin is not highly tanned, which suggests she has not been here long. The tone of complaint amuses him. He recognizes a newcomer to this world, which combined with her gender means there are two reasons to be interested in her.

  Gravity on the Roving [many associated information objects] is slightly higher than on Earth [many, many, many associated information objects] but he is used to it. This world is his home, now. He is a citizen of the Commonwealth [a term laden with emotion and pride].

  Different imperatives run through his mind, all stemming from the fact that she is an attractive female, pleasant to look at: engage in conversation; spend time with her. There are also more negative ones: don’t be a jerk, don’t put her o f. He hardly knows they are there but they guide his actions, his mood, his words.

  ‘It just takes practice,’ he says. ‘Sitting down a lot helps.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed. If it doesn’t kill me . . .’

  ‘It’ll make you stronger.’

  ‘Kind of a default medical exam for citizenship,’ she says. They smile at each other, a moment of shared understanding. ‘You a Commonwealth man?’

  ‘Yup. Four years.’

  ‘So you were in at the start? I suppose that gives you time to adjust.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ A sudden reticence, a non-desire to speak of his father; a fear she might think he’s bragging. ‘I was on UK-One when it came. I decided to stay.’

  ‘That so? I’m with UK-1 now. It was meant to be a stepping stone to the Commonwealth but now I wonder.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She’s probably thirsty; he wants her to stay longer; he signals a waiter. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Well, the king’s decided he wants to start a defence force . . .’

  Hardly relevant, the Abbot Processor’s thoughts pulsed. The female unit is high in his affections. So what?

  The Abbot Processor had been Meewa’s sponsor all his life, ever since Meewa’s latent ability had been detected as an infant. His opinion was doubly important to Meewa now; not just as his superior but as a loved and respected senior figure. But Meewa had to suppress his irritation at the casual, dismissive tone of his master’s thoughts.

  His master’s fingers ran over the sculpture, the piece of retrieved memory that Meewa had put together. The clay to give meaning and shape to the information that ran between their shared minds, the stones to show the links between the information objects that his finger tips were uncovering. Meewa had enjoyed making that model. He had sensed a friendliness, a sympathy in the tall visitor and it had been a pleasure to map out his mind. Then had come that slap, that rejection when they watched the malesna fight. Meewa still smarted from it.

  It was only slightly less irksome than the Abbot Processor’s scepticism.

  With respect, I must point out the connotations with the Commonwealth information object, Meewa pulsed back. This is the first time he’s thought of himself as a member of the Commonwealth in the presence of an outsider that he wishes to be close to, which makes the meaning he attaches to it more apparent. And I cross-link these thoughts to his father information object. A unit he greatly admires.

  Your conclusions?

  This Commonwealth was designed to help two species live together. Meewa was thinking carefully as he pulsed back. This was the crux of his argument. He’s proud that it was formed to save one species from slavery. He’s proud to be part of that entity.

  Just as Meewa was proud to be a Processor. It was another common point between them; something else to make Joel Gilmore’s anger personally hurtful.

  There’s also a lot of self-interest here, the Abbot Processor observed. He’s in the Commonwealth for what it can do for him, just as much as, if not more than what he can do for it. His belief in the Commonwealth is more theoretical than practical. Note that he does not particularly like these Rusties.

  Meewa would rather the floor opened up and swallowed him, but he had to contradict.

  The dislike of Rusties is a surface thought based on day-to-day experience. It doesn’t run deep. His deep layers have a strong element of compassion and a desire for what he perceives as justice. His approval of the Commonwealth is based on theory, but it is a grounding theory. And I remind you again of his father. He craves parental approval even without realizing it. He will never do something that he thinks would hurt his father.

  The Abbot Processor was impatient.

  And where does all this take us, Meewa?

  Meewa had to say it.

  He doesn’t approve of our treatment of the malesna and he won’t help us gather more. His tone was reluctant, but firm. This was how it was. Facts were facts and not worth arguing about.

  The Abbot Processor had taught him that.

  Now the Abbot Processor stood and walked to the window. He looked out at the visitors’ sky vessel.

  I see. Compassion, you say. There’s no compassion for a dying race?

  There’s plenty! He greatly feels for our predicament and despite his distaste he feels more fondly towards us than he does towards the malesna. But I say again, he will not help us acquire more of them.

  Very well. We need his knowledge; we don’t necessarily need him. The Abbot Processor turned back from the window. You are authorized to recover that knowledge, Meewa. Go deep into his mind and do it.

  Meewa almost demurred, but he had contradicted his master enough for one day.

  Boon Round may attempt to interfere, he pointed out instead.

  Boon Round will be dealt with. You cannot read him and the pair have rejected our friendship; he is therefore unnecessary to us. I will have him dealt with; you do as instructed. The Abbot Processor left.

  I’ll start at once, Meewa pulsed. And he apologized mentally to Joel Gilmore for the pain he was about to cause. But, he added silently, you brought it on yourself. Boon Round trudged moodily around the plaza and his thoughts, though he didn’t know it, mirrored Joel’s. So this is the Commonwealth.

  Ridiculous, really. An agreement to co-exist, to help each other . . . even though everyone knew it was really the humans in charge. But they at least pretended the First Breed were their equals and partners – until it came to the crunch.

  A small part of Boon Round’s mind pointed out that the humans could have taken straight over from the Ones Who Command. It had been the original plan. The First Breed would still be slaves, just slaves to different masters. The Commonwealth had come about because some humans – the father of that idiot Joel Gilmore, for one – hadn’t been able to trust certain other humans with that kind of responsibility. And, all things considered, Boon Round preferred freedom to slavery; a constitution that guaranteed certain rights ahead of the arbitrary whims of the Ones Who Command.

  But he would rather be mistreated by a One Who Commands, which was in his nature, than be insulted by a human, with whom he was meant to be an equal.

  Trudge, trudge, trudge. Boon Round had come to the end of one wall. He turned right and walked along the next.

  Humans! Who needed them? Sometimes he could just . . .

  Boon Round stopped in his tracks. Had he really been so stupid? Had even he, proud member of a race which (as Joel Gilmore had pointed out) was not renowned for its imagination, really not thought of something so obvious? He knew how to get to the lifeboat.

  Then he heard the screaming.

  The picture of Donna hovered in front of him, generated by his ident bracelet. Joel studied it gloomily. Eventually he took his finger off the tab and the image vanished. Memories. Fond memories.

  Joel stood up and wandered over to the door. Boon Round was pacing along the far wall of the plaza. He wondered if he should go over and apologize. In fact there was no if about it. None of what had happened was Boon Round’s fault and he had been taking it all out on the Rustie. If they were meant to be equals then he had been inexcusably rude; and
if he was meant to be Boon Round’s superior officer then he had been venting his frustration on a subordinate. Even more inexcusable.

  A twinge in his head. ‘Oh, come on!’ he said to the air. ‘Not again!’ He looked around, but saw no sign of Meewa. In fact, the square was deserted – the only sign of life, one pissed-off Rustie. The pain came back and grew stronger.

  And stronger. And stronger. ‘Hey!’ he yelled, but to no effect. Surely he could manage it, he had been here before . . . but never as bad as this. His vision blurred. Something was growing inside his brain which must explode soon. His head would burst but it would be over.

  But it kept growing still. His balance was gone. He toppled over, unable to take his hands away from his head to break the fall. His head banged against the door lintel. He felt the shock, he felt skin break, he felt blood trickle down his face. But there was no pain because he didn’t have any pain to spare from the torture going inside his head.

  Joel screamed, shrieked, shrieked again. His throat was raw. He wanted to faint, wanted the blackness to come, but he stayed obstinately awake.

  Then he saw the images. He recognized Meewa’s touch in his mind, and it was delving. Delving deep. He sensed the connection between them, saw the stream of information flowing from his mind to Meewa’s.

  An image of the lifeboat. The pilot’s desk. Thoughts and ideas and concepts from his basic training. Meewa was learning to fly the lifeboat.

  ‘No you don’t!’ He didn’t know if he said it, shouted it, just thought it. But he fought back. He closed his mind. The flow slowed down, slightly, and then the pain and the pressure built up again.

  And still Joel fought.

  Boon Round pelted across the plaza. Four locals were running towards him, reaching for their swords. He put his head down and charged through them.

  Then he was through the door and in the front room of the house. Joel Gilmore lay on the floor, his body locked rigid in an agonized backwards curve that should have snapped his spine. Blood streamed from his nose and ears, and his face was as red as a sunset. His mouth was wide open, wider than Boon Round had ever seen in a human before, and his face was contorted, but the screaming had stopped. Boon Round had a horrible feeling he had reached the stage where even screaming wasn’t enough. Or perhaps he had simply scraped his vocal cords raw.

  Joel’s mouth moved. ‘Th . . .’ he breathed. There was no volume in his voice, no power left in his lungs to provide it. Boon Round moved closer, cocked an ear. ‘They . . . they’re . . . getting . . . lifeboat . . . info.’

  Boon Round turned quickly as a local loomed in the doorway. It held a spear at the ready and it looked warily at him. Presumably it only saw what it thought Boon Round was – a four-legged creature whose only means of manipulating objects were two grasping tentacles, one either side of the mouth. It began to advance.

  Boon Round flicked his graspers at the local, let it think that was all he could do. The local edged closer. Then Boon Round reared up on his hindfeet and his forefeet grabbed the shaft of the spear. He twisted it free and in the same movement clubbed his assailant with the blunt end. The local staggered backwards out of the door. Boon Round quickly spun the spear so that the business end was aimed at those clustering outside. The door was narrow; only one could come through at a time. For a minute or two, he was safe.

  How long before they fetched an archer?

  ‘Help . . .’ Joel breathed.

  Boon Round made up his mind.

  ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I have had enough of your endless complaining!’ He studied the spear grasped in his forefeet: a wooden shaft and a sharpened stone point. His forelegs tensed and the spear snapped. Boon Round dropped to all fours, held the point in one grasper and jabbed it into Joel’s side. The point went through the weathersuit and into his skin, and Joel gasped. ‘On your feet, human!’ Boon Round snapped.

  Joel looked at him blankly, his pain clouding his mind. Boon Round grabbed Joel’s head with his graspers and looked straight into the human’s face.

  ‘Meewa, I expect you can hear me,’ he said. ‘I have had enough of your hospitality and I am leaving. You can keep this pathetic human if you like; I have had enough of him too. However, I am now going to walk to the lifeboat and I am taking this creature with me. If I see a single one of your people along the way – ‘ he waved the spear point in front of Joel’s eyes – ‘the human gets it.’ He jabbed Joel again. ‘Now, human, get up!’

  It took several more jabs and blood was beginning to seep through the tears in his weathersuit, but Joel managed to stagger to his feet. Dazed, barely coherent, but the pain seemed to have stopped.

  ‘Now, out,’ Boon Round said. Another jab. They shuffled out into the square and started for the lifeboat.

  Meewa had followed instructions and the way was clear. Boon Round was grateful for his First Breed’s 200-degree-plus vision as he scanned rooftops, arches, hidden corners for the ambush he was sure would come. One plaza down. Two plazas down . . .

  ‘Look . . .’ Joel protested.

  ‘Silence!’ Yet another jab, and they kept walking.

  Boon Round knew where the lifeboat was from the tower, and the tower was an obvious landmark, so that was where he headed. Now the tower was one plaza ahead of them.

  A flicker of movement ahead; a local just vanishing around a corner.

  ‘I warned you, Meewa!’ Boon Round held the spear point over Joel’s stomach. ‘I said I don’t want to see anyone! Get everyone back, now!’

  They paused; no more movement from ahead, so they cautiously started walking again.

  Five locals jumped from behind a pillar and fell on them. Two bumped into Joel and knocked him away from Boon Round and the spear point. Another swiped at the point itself with a sword and Boon Round barely missed having his grasper severed. The last two jumped on Boon Round himself.

  Boon Round didn’t bother contesting the issue. He ducked down low between their legs and scarpered.

  He was tensed for a spear, an arrow, something in his back and he darted from side to side as he ran across the plaza, but nothing came. The locals thought he could be dealt with later; they had Joel, Meewa could go back to work. The tower was just ahead. So close, so close . . .

  And the tone sounded through his translator unit. At last! He was back in range of Joel’s aide. And that meant . . .

  He switched to comm mode. ‘Lifeboat systems command. Activate secondary engines. Take off. Rise to altitude two hundred feet. Stop. Await further orders. Acknowledge.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ said a neutral voice from his translator unit. ‘Complying.’

  In the distance, he heard the engines whine into action. A beautiful sound.

  Locals were pouring out of the buildings ahead. Boon Round swerved, weaved his way between them. He would run round in circles if necessary, but he would stay close to the tower.

  Some of the locals were slowing down, stopping, gazing upwards. The lifeboat had come into view above the rooftops. Its landing feet were still down, the ladder still out. Boon Round hadn’t told it to compensate for wind movement and it was drifting slowly like a giant metal blimp.

  ‘Spin around vertical axis towards starboard,’ Boon Round ordered. It turned. ‘Stop!’ as it came to face him. ‘Move forward, descend to fifty feet . . .’

  It was a brave local who could stand still while the monster came down from the sky. Boon Round ordered the lifeboat to set down in front of him and the sight of its landing feet touching down in front of them, the shock absorbers compressing, the whole spectacle of it settling into place was the happiest sight of his life. He glanced over to where Joel had been.

  Joel was gone. Well, he would just have to hope Meewa could take a hint. He ran to the ladder, climbed up, shut the inner hatch and took a deep breath.

  Safe. He was safe. He could put the defence fields on and be untouchable. Or just take off, why not?

  Why not – for a very good reason. He walked more slowly to the flight de
ck, looked out through the viewports. Joel had been in that direction there, so . . . he looked away . . . that direction over there would be safe. At least for Joel. He reached for the controls of the laser turret.

  A few more commands, and high energy laser fire ploughed into the square outside. He waited for the smoke to clear and peered out. He had cut a smoking black trough clear across the square from one corner to the other. He had deliberately stopped it just short of the buildings.

  They couldn’t have taken Joel very far; he would give them thirty seconds. He sat back and waited.

  Because Joel Gilmore was actually right. Boon Round could argue, and had, that the Dead Worlders using the XCs as they did was part of the natural ecosystem in this solar system, a strange symbiosis between two worlds. On that basis, he and Joel had no business preventing the locals from acquiring more malesna. But then Joel had cunningly used that ploy of inviting him to put himself in their position. That changed things, because Boon Round could very well do that.

  It was natural for a First Breed to be the slave of a One Who Commands, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Boon Round took the argument one step further. If he had lived all his life in complete ignorance of the Ones Who Command, and then they had turned up out of nowhere and claimed his service, would he have tolerated it?

  No.

  So, Boon Round’s mind was made up. They couldn’t, wouldn’t capture any more XCs, and they had to get the lifeboat away from the people who wanted them to.

  Thirty seconds was up. He aimed up at the roof of the building across the square safely opposite where Joel had last been seen. Another laser burst made the roof explode in a cloud of vaporized masonry. Panicked locals swarmed out into the square. Boon Round aimed low and ploughed another laser trough, shepherding them away from the lifeboat. How many hints did Meewa need?