The Xenocide Mission Page 28

  Barabadar squatted back on her haunches and looked at him in a manner which Gilmore suspected was thoughtful. ‘They have something you want. And that something could conceivably be . . . telepathy. Does it work at light speed or is it instantaneous? And if it is instantaneous, what is its range? And if its range is large enough, can it be used for instant communication with your homeworld? Or between ships, perhaps?’

  Gilmore put his hands on the table, palms up. ‘That could possibly be a reason.’

  ‘You have a high opinion of your capabilities. Supposing you can’t work out how it works?’

  ‘Supposing you can’t work out how Pathfinder functions?’ Gilmore countered, bringing the conversation at least back to the middle-ranking subject.

  ‘Oh, I think we can! It will take time, but we will set every scientist on Homeworld to study it. It is a machine, machines can be disassembled and put back together. A little different from telepathy, a subject that is brand new to both our races.’

  ‘We have to try,’ Gilmore said.

  ‘So, you intend to come and go in our system as you please?’

  Back to the Dead Worlders again . . . ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  ‘Would you allow us to do the same if we discovered a similar race in your own system?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘What a conveniently flexible code of ethics you have. And while your Navy is reaping the benefits of telepathy, what about us? If your First Son is correct, once a sufficient number of Dead Worlders have reawakened, they will again be able to do to us what they did for hundreds of thousands of years. We can’t allow that. How do you intend to stop them? In short, Worthy Sister, what is in it for us?’

  Gilmore had to accept that they were going to finish off the subject of the Dead World first. Then he could talk about the crew. He swallowed, because this was the tricky bit.

  ‘Look,’ he said. He leaned closer, hoped Barabadar would recognize the body language for sincerity. Leaning closer to those teeth and claws required an internal adjustment of attitude, but he managed it. ‘I propose we define an exclusion zone around the Dead World. You don’t come within it – that’s your present policy anyway – and everything within it is ours. And you’ll have to acknowledge us, because step-through points can be detected with your present technology and you won’t be able to keep us quiet to your people.’

  He sat back and held the Marshal of Space’s gaze. He had already established that human and XC body language at least had that much in common; prolonged eye contract meant trust, conviction. Or challenge, depending on context. He hoped the context was right. And he remembered what Oomoing had told him about the whole SkySpy attack. It was only a theory but Oomoing strongly suspected she was right.

  Marshal of Space Barabadar was an unlikely looking peace merchant, but that was her intent, and always had been.

  ‘For most of our recorded history,’ Oomoing had said, as the lifeboat headed back to SkySpy on maximum power, ‘the Kin fought one another. I for one have always been grateful I was born since the end of the Era of War. Yes, there is still tension, there are still skirmishes, but nothing like the holocausts of old. As a scientist, I’ve always felt it a wonder that any kind of scientific progress was made at all amongst the Kin, with the blows dealt to civilization on such a regular basis. We developed weapons that could destroy nations, we developed rockets capable of delivering them, we fought world-wide wars to that effect . . . and then the Era of War was over. It seems too good to be true, but true it is.’

  ‘You still fight,’ Gilmore had commented.

  ‘We still fight, but that is only right and in our nature. We have the Rituals of Combat to limit the carnage to a manageable level.’

  ‘But the knowledge must still be there,’ Gilmore said. ‘Weapons don’t uninvent themselves.’

  ‘Of course not! The Kin knew how to make those weapons, and just because all the nations had signed the convention limiting their proliferation, that was no guarantee they had all been destroyed. Every decade or so came a new theory which said that they hadn’t all been destroyed and were in fact stored at some new location. These rumours were always investigated and as candidate locations on Homeworld grew ever fewer, the rumours moved out into space.’

  ‘But if this arms dump exists at all,’ said Gilmore, ‘it was built before you had any decent space technology.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Oomoing said. ‘Therefore, unlikely to be far out in space . . . but only if it was defended and maintained by Kin. Kin would need relieving and resupplying and the spaceships would be spotted. But that wouldn’t be so if the crew were servors.’

  ‘Servors?’

  ‘Air-breathing robots,’ Boon Round explained. He had heard the story already.

  ‘Servors could have built a base anywhere in our solar system,’ Oomoing said, ‘with all the time in the world at their disposal. And of course, to attack a base defended by them, you would let the air out. Do my Martial Sister’s tactics start to make sense? Not to mention her dishonourable lack of a challenge?’

  Gilmore shut his eyes. Oh, God. How much of this whole business had been one mistake, one error after another? ‘So when she discovered something on the asteroid was putting out heat, she put two and two together . . .’ he said.

  ‘And made five. We have a similar expression,’ said Oomoing.

  And now, Gilmore sincerely wished he did have something more concrete to offer Barabadar than vague promises.

  ‘Your confidence amazes me.’ The aide’s tone suggested more sarcasm than honest amazement. ‘You have the whole future neatly mapped out to your benefit and we get nothing . . .’

  A communication tone came in from her people on the outlander ship at almost the same time as Gilmore’s aide began to chime for attention.

  The chief XC on Pathfinder’s flight deck – the Marshal of Space’s son, no less – raised his gun menacingly. Karen Nguyen ignored it as she strode across the deck to confront the small group of Rusties.

  ‘Look,’ she shouted at Sand Strong. ‘There’s no need. We can work this out . . .’

  ‘I am sorry.’ It wasn’t Sand Strong who spoke. When it became obvious that the Device Ultimate ploy had failed, the pride had locked itself away in the ship’s Commune Place and undergone the quiet, bloodless, consensual revolution that happened whenever the First Breed fell out with themselves. The new pride leader was Day Red; Sand Strong was just one of his juniors. ‘We came close to doing a terrible thing. We betrayed the trust of the Commonwealth and we endangered billions of innocent lives. This is the only way we can make amends.’

  ‘Haven’t you guys heard of a simple apology?’

  ‘Lieutenant Nguyen, in the days of the Ones Who Command, it was customary for clans to exchange prides from time to time. It enabled understanding and the growth of alliances, and it was a way for losing clans to make restitution to the winners. This is our way. Please respect it.’

  ‘But . . .’ Nguyen said helplessly. She looked from Day Red to the XC, and back. There were so many reasons this couldn’t happen. It would give the XCs superior technology. It would give them a victory. It just plain hurt. It . . .

  ‘There are enough humans on board to make repairs and to get Pathfinder back home,’ said Day Red. ‘You don’t need us. Please don’t worry about us, Lieutenant – we’ve changed masters once, we can do it again.’

  Day Red turned to the XC and activated the XC translator. His words came out simultaneously in Standard English and the chirping percussion that was XC-speak.

  ‘Please inform your mother that the First Breed on board Pathfinder are hers to command.’

  Barabadar and Michael Gilmore looked at each other again across the table top. Gilmore wondered if he was just imagining the waves of satisfaction that seemed to flow out of her.

  ‘Well,’ Barabadar said, ‘it appears we do get something out of this, after all. An entire – what was the word? – pride of your servants should certainly
placate my government.’

  ‘They are not servants,’ Gilmore grated. ‘They were created servants for the Ones Who Command but in the Commonwealth, they’re equals. We work alongside each other.’

  ‘In your Commonwealth, are they free enough to declare themselves not free if they so choose?’ Barabadar said. Gilmore didn’t answer. ‘Then here is how it is. I will release the human half of your crew, and . . . yes, I will release Pathfinder, and your step-through device, as a gesture of goodwill to foster further relations between our species. In return, these First Breed remain with us. They’ll be very well treated, I give you my word about that.’

  Gilmore could believe it. Barabadar wouldn’t look . . . actually, she probably would look a gift horse in the mouth, just to be sure, and give it a full medical into the bargain, but she certainly wouldn’t abuse it once she found it was indeed sound and healthy. And this gift horse was in the form of a pride of First Breed, bursting with knowledge about step-through, starship mechanics and quantum energy sources.

  ‘Accepted,’ he sighed. ‘And as for—’

  ‘With one further condition,’ Barabadar interrupted. ‘I don’t have resources for looking after or transporting a whole pride back to Homeworld. We keep this vessel too.’

  Gilmore shut his eyes, groaned quietly. The XCs Would Not Get Commonwealth Technology – that had been the basis for the entire mission. But he really didn’t have a choice, and he could see Barabadar’s point – she needed to transport fifty Rusties, somehow.

  ‘Accepted,’ he said again. ‘And now?’

  ‘As for the matter of the Dead World, I think I can speak favourably to my government and to the League of Mothers about your requests. This unexpected bonus will incline them to be reasonable.’ She stood to leave. ‘Goodbye, Worthy Sister; I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.’

  Another farewell at the lifeboat airlock.

  ‘I can only echo my Martial Sister’s words,’ Oomoing said. She was fully suited up and ready to depart. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Joel said with a grin.

  ‘Thanks for looking after him,’ Donna added. She and Joel had their arms around each other’s waist.

  ‘I did my best,’ Oomoing said. ‘I didn’t know about chocolate .’

  Joel gagged. ‘Never again. Please.’

  ‘Will you be involved further with the Dead World natives?’ Oomoing asked.

  ‘Probably.’ Joel pulled a face. ‘I mean, I’m the only one who can talk to them at the moment. Why?’

  ‘Because I would like to study them more closely too, if a means can be found of doing it safely. We have a lot to find out. Perhaps we can do it together. There are matters that need clarifying.’

  Gilmore Senior had come up behind them. ‘One of the first contact ships spent a week on the surface of the Dead World,’ he said, ‘and they reported no survivors. So yes, there’s a lot of misinformation to sort out.’

  The rude noise Oomoing made wasn’t translated by the aide. ‘They spent a week looking and found no-one; Joel and Boon Round landed at random and found a whole community. I’d question the competence of your original informant.’

  She reached for the door control, paused. ‘I confess I still have certain reservations about your physical form,’ she said. ‘So consider yourselves kissed.’ The door slid shut.

  ‘We have control, lifeboat,’ said the voice. ‘Rendezvous in five minutes.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Pathfinder,’ said Boon Round. ‘You have control.’ He removed his graspers from the control desk. It continued to operate without him. Pathfinder was bringing them in on remote. ‘Five minutes,’ he said unnecessarily to the humans with him, who had heard the announcement themselves.

  ‘Great!’ Gilmore rubbed his hands together. ‘Boon Round, could you give me a hand aft?’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Just . . . please?’ Gilmore turned and ducked through the hatch. Boon Round paused for a moment, then followed him, muttering something about humans who needed help with everything, what was the use, why did he bother...?

  Joel and Donna were alone on the flight deck, at long last.

  ‘Well, he read the signals,’ Donna said. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  They looked at each other. Joel knew she wanted something. But what? It wasn’t a kiss. They had already kissed. And apparently they had been left alone for a purpose. The only thing that came to mind other than kissing didn’t usually take place on flight decks, it should certainly last longer than five minutes and he didn’t think his dad would be quite so cold-blooded about it.

  ‘Look,’ she said quietly. ‘We won’t see a lot of each other when we get back. I’m in charge of the marines now.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ He swallowed. And he suddenly realized. She wanted to know. She had come this far on sheer faith, and she still didn’t know for sure it had been worth it. Once back on board Pathfinder she could throw herself into her duties and wean herself off him, or . . .

  He reached out to her, took her hand. ‘I . . .’ He swallowed again. ‘I still can’t believe you came all this way for me.’

  She was still looking into his eyes. He wanted to pretend there was no bottom, no end to her gaze; he could fall into those eyes and lose himself for ever.

  He felt fingers twining with his own. He looked down at their clasped hands, then back up at her.

  ‘I never told you . . .’ he went on. He felt his face warming up; he knew he was blushing like a teenager on a first kiss. ‘You know I grew up on Luna?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, boys and girls there . . .’

  ‘The same as anywhere else, surely?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Mum was, um, odd. She joined the Post-Socialist Collective and there the boys and girls are exactly the same. We play together, grow up together . . . I mean, baths and showers together! And then you’re expected to join a group marriage when you’re older and . . . So anyway, we’re, um, not exactly strangers to each other and we’re world-class experts on the, um, physical differences between boys and girls but . . . when it comes to, well, you know, finding one special person who’s more important than anyone else, we’re, well, we’re not so good at it . . .’

  Throw me a line! he wanted to cry. ‘Donna, having to leave you was the cruellest bastard trick that ever got pulled on me, because I knew we were this close, this close –’ he disentangled a hand and held it up, thumb and forefinger a bare millimetre apart – ‘to clicking, to making it work, and I thought of you every moment from the time I left the Roving, and I . . . Look.’ He freed his other hand to activate his ident bracelet. The faintly exasperated expression on the holo exactly matched the faintly exasperated expression on her face now. ‘You were this close to me all that time.’ He switched the bracelet off, tentatively pressed that wrist against his chest. ‘And I want you closer. This close. Al—’

  He had been going to say, always, but that was when she finally moved forward and kissed him. Into that kiss went all the pain, all the fear, all the heartache of the last few weeks; it evaporated away into nothing. They drew apart and the universe consisted entirely of Joel Gilmore and Donna McCallum, gazing with adoration into each other’s eyes.

  Pathfinder’s docking tube extended out to the lifeboat’s airlock. There was a clang, a bump, a hiss as the two met and sealed and flooded with air.

  Boon Round operated the hatch control, and inner and outer hatches opened.

  At the far end of the tube was Pathfinder, and framed in the big ship’s airlock was the vanguard of the defecting pride. They were the first First Breed that the prideless Boon Round had seen in the best part of a month, and he had wondered how this moment would be. To his surprise, he felt very little. These creatures had defected. They had put themselves outside the First Breed nation.

  In effect, they were the First Breed’s first colony in space.

  ‘Well, her
e goes,’ said Michael Gilmore, and he stepped forward. Boon Round paused for a moment, then followed him, with Joel Gilmore and Donna McCallum bringing up the rear.

  Out of the corner of his eye Boon Round noticed Joel taking a final look back at the lifeboat. Well, it had served them well . . . but Boon Round was all too keen to put it behind him. The lifeboat was in the past. Boon Round lived in the present and looked forward to . . . ah yes, the future, he thought as the other pride approached him. The future was also something he had no desire to linger on. It had XCs in it. The Commonwealth was going to work with them. Work with them, be nice to them, be nice to those forsaken creatures who had kept him and Joel Gilmore . . . alive. They wouldn’t have needed keeping alive if the XCs had just left SkySpy alone, but the fact was, the creatures had gone out of their way to look after them. Eventually.

  Madness, he thought gloomily. But so had been handing over leadership of the Roving to a whole new species four years ago, and by and large it seemed to be working.

  So he would go along with this new policy because this was how it was. But he didn’t have to like it and he would request integration into a pride on the Roving that kept him well away from the beasts.

  Now they were walking through the defecting pride. Their bodies jostled, the blessed smell of the First Breed filled his nostrils. It was difficult for a single First Breed to walk one way while a whole pride walked another. Without even thinking about it he slowed, missed a step, and Michael Gilmore glanced down at him. Was the human worried? Did he think Boon Round would join the flow?

  Joel would probably have said something. Michael Gilmore did not. The man trusted him, Boon Round, to make his own decisions. So Boon Round kept walking.

  Twenty-Two

  9 July 2153

  ’There she blows,’ Gilmore said. A dark mass had appeared on the horizon, drawing closer as the Roving’s Western Ocean blurred beneath the aircar.

  A solid plug of rock rose out of the waves; dark cliffs, unassailable shores.