Children of Hope (70 page)

“Huh?”

“
Olympiad,
this is Bishop Scanlen. Put me through to His Reverence, Special Envoy Pandeker. Do it at once.”

The outrider wrote,
TIME SMALL
.

“Yes, a second is small time. What of it?” Then my eyes widened. “Taste one-arm words?”

OUTSIDER SHIP TASTE NO FISH TASTE.

“Ms Skor! Tell Fath that inside the fish, they know what I write without rolling over it. Maybe the fish feels it and tells them.” I stopped dead, looked from one to the other of them. “Tell him they all talk! Whatever we taught one, they all know. Either they’re—”

“I hear you, son.”

“Telepathic or …” I couldn’t begin to guess what else.

TIME SMALL. HUMAN OUTRIDER SQUIGGLE NO WAR.

“Fath … I mean Captain?” My tone was wary. “They want something from us, to call off the war.”

“What?”

“A squiggle.” I added hastily, “Sorry, I’m not sure what it means.”

“For Lord God’s sake, find out. Flank.”

Two outriders undulated across the fish. One puddled into the gesture of submission. The other disgorged a squat object, deposited it at my feet.

Cautiously, I bent to retrieve it. We were on the dayside of Hope Nation, but even with portholes the light wasn’t all that great. I held the gift close, squinted.

A human hand, putrefying, mottled, thawing.

“Oh, God, a rotting hand!” I flung it across the chamber. Desperately, I tried not to retch, and failed. I heaved the contents of my stomach into my helmet.

“Randy! What have they done?”

Again I gagged.

Zero gee. Foul globules floated in my visor. The acid stench … The air flow ceased; I’d fouled the tube. I sucked one glob down my windpipe. I gasped and wheezed. “Fath … trouble. Gotta … off helmet.”

“No, son!”

I had no choice; I couldn’t endure another instant. The first compartment was aired; I prayed this would be too. Choking, face purple, I clawed at my clamps. Through my smeared visor I caught a glimpse of outriders diving for the nearest membranes. Good. Maybe humans would infect
them.
I tore off the helmet.

My ears popped; it was like finding myself atop Mount Von Walther, in the Venturas. I panted and gasped. The atmosphere was far too thin. The membrane to the first chamber tore open. Foul air wafted in, not enough. The fish pulsed like a beating heart. Air. Again. More air, foul but welcome. My pulse began to slow. I sucked at the air tube, dislodged what blocked it, spat. Instantly the fish absorbed it, and it disappeared. I used my sleeve to wipe the visor as best I could.

The outrider quivered. It drew a blob.

“Later, I’m busy.” I scoured the helmet clean of droplets, set it on my head. Here we go again. I managed the first clamp.

The outrider surged toward me, an appendage spurting. He climbed the membrane serving as a bulkhead, to loom over my head.

He landed atop me. Gray protoplasm blocked my visor. “Get away, you goddamn—” Just in time, I stopped myself from batting it away. “Fath, it’s pulling off my helmet!”

A grate. A click. Another.

“Why?”

Of all the stupid questions … how the hell would I know? Maybe it was peeling its dinner.

Click. I flinched. A scrape.

The outrider flowed off, clung for a moment to the membrane, oozed to the deck.

Nervously, I felt my helmet. It was intact. And the seal light blinked steadily. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!” “Sir, he fastened my clamps! He’s friendly!” If there’d been grav, I’d have jumped for joy. The hard knot in my stomach eased perceptibly.

“Station to
Olympiad.
We’re sectoring our fire as follows—
JESUS LORD CHRIST!
”

Galvanized, I kicked off to the nearest porthole. I fetched up against the fish’s thick skin, whose mottled colors and shapes flowed unceasingly.

Outside, fish.

Hundreds of fish.

More than I’d dreamed existed.

“All units, fire at will!”

“Wait, Kaminski, see what they
—
”

Holes appeared in half a dozen fish. They spewed protoplasm, wilted.

The swarm was moving. Where? My perspective was skewed.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” The voice from the Station was frantic.

“They’re not attacking, they’re
—
”

I scribbled on the fish. “Dead ship no! No war!”

The outrider twitched and quivered. He drew again. I squinted. A blob with five points. A hand.
SQUIGGLE HAND?

“No!” I stabbed my writing tool into the fish.

The outrider oozed through the membrane, reappeared with half a dozen of its fellows.
SQUIGGLE SHIP?

Before I could respond, they herded me toward a membrane. How many compartments did this bloody fish have? Certainly its size would allow far more than I’d seen. On the other hand, the fish was clearly alive, and would need much of its space to maintain itself.

“Centraltown and Venturas Base, this is Captain Seafort. Fish, a flotilla of hundreds, heading toward your atmosphere. Trajectory indicates landfall two hours sixteen minutes. They’ve broken off their attack on Olympiad.”

“Palabee to Seafort. Kill them all!”

“We’re lying off the Station, in mutual defense. We’ll lose sight of the Venturas in half an hour.”

“Use your frazzing engines!”

TIME SMALL.

“Yeah.” I clutched my drawing stick. “Talk squiggle. One-arm not understand.”

The outriders converged on me. Their appendages weren’t a safe gray. Without ceremony, they herded me to the membrane, through it.

SQUIGGLE SHIP?

I gaped past the writing. It wasn’t a ship that lay against a membrane, but what in God’s name … a console? From what? And how did it get into the fish? The condition wasn’t bad, really, though it looked like it had been torn out by force.

“Sir, Captain, they’re showing me a puter console.”

“Just a moment, joey, he’s charting a course.”
Ms Skor.

“Don’t leave!” It burst out before I could stop myself.

“That’s not up to me.”
Her voice was brusque.

“Captain, Colonel Kaminski here. Some of those fish will get through.” His voice was tight. Perhaps the Colonel was old enough to remember the last fish invasion, when Dad was a joeykid. “Don’t forget, the Venturas Base was never fully rebuilt after the war. It has minimal lasers.”

“Why in Lord God’s name did Palabee move his government there?”

A grim chuckle. “Perhaps he didn’t feel safe among his fellow citizens.” Kaminski was once Anthony’s man. No doubt he had little love for Palabee.

“He made his bed. Randy, what do you make of it?”

Palabee was a coward, and a fool. Anth had said as much. That’s why he—oh. That’s not what Fath meant. “The console, sir? I don’t know much about—”

“Describe it.”

“About one meter in width. A puter screen about two hands wide, vocal input, keyboard.” I peered at it. “Emergency hatch release, a green pad. Mating lock, smaller, blue—”

“It’s from a ship’s launch. The old style. You’ll probably find the name on a plate under the key
—
”

“Challenger.
UNS
Challenger.”

Silence.

“Did you hear? I said—”

“I heard.”
Fath’s voice was from the grave.

A chill banished the fetid warmth of my suit.

Challenger
was Father’s old ship. In her, he’d been abandoned to the harsh mercies of interstellar space. He’d fought the fish, embedded her prow in a dying fish, Fused with it to home system. So … how could her launch be in a fish at Hope Nation?

“Fath, the comm unit still has a chip.”

“Kaminski
…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Things are … not as they seem. Would you hold fire?”

“I can’t. Palabee’s not worth the powder to blow him to Hell, but those are my people groundside. I can’t let the fish have them.”

“I don’t think they’re …”
A sigh.
“I understand. Randy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The chip … if you don’t mind, plug your suit port into the comm unit. Your suit power will energize it.”

“I don’t want to.” I pushed away, floated to the bulkhead opposite. There’d be something terrible on the chip. Screams, or the sound of crewmen being devoured. I’d never outlive the nightmares.

“I ask this of you. Please.”

“No!”

A new voice.
“Randy, Jerence Branstead. I’m with Mr Seafort on the bridge. It was a terrible time on
Challenger.
I hadn’t met your father yet, but I heard afterwards. Midshipman Tyre, the only other officer aboard, took the launch to ram a fish, and died saving the ship. Nick named his son Philip after him. Philip Tyre Seafort, the joey we call ‘P. T.’”
A pause.
“No, Nick, let me. He’s a right to know. Son … your father’s had a hard life, full of guilts. It would mean a lot if you’d close this door for him. Let him know the worst. It can’t be as bad as his imaginings.”

I whispered something, cleared my throat. Again, louder. “Yes, sir.” Reluctantly, I kicked against the living bulkhead, floated back to the console. Leaning over it, I plugged my commcord into the plug.

A
HISS, THAT SEEMED
to go on forever.

A voice, dull, drained.

“M—mak—making my final report.” Hiss. Then, as if starting anew: “Midshipman Philip Tyre of UNS
Challenger,
making my final report. Not that anyone will read it. I’m sick. The frazzing virus … faster than starving, I suppose. And Christ, my hand hurts.”

I pawed at my radionics. Was I transmitting? Yes.

“It’s September something, 2198. Was it only yesterday they attacked? I took the launch. Captain Seafort sort of agreed. I didn’t give him much choice. I scrambled in, tried to bump the fish away from our tubes. Stupid to bother; the tubes don’t work and never will. But they’re all that keep the crew sane. Seafort—sorry,
Mr
Seafort’s a good man, better than he knows. He lets us play at repairing the drive, and holds us to our duty.”

A long, hacking cough.

Safe in my suit, I shivered.

“
Olympiad,
this is Palabee! Destroy them!”

I switched off groundside frequency.

“Well, I rammed the frazzing fish. It was the only way to get him off. The hull of my launch dissolved, clear back to the cockpit. If I wasn’t in my suit, I’d be dead. Wish I was.” Again, the cough. “They swarmed over me. Those skittery things. Outriders. But no acid, not then. They rolled me out of the launch, what’s left of it, into something like a room. I’m pretty sure I was in the fish. It was convulsing like mad. Think it was dying. You won’t believe this …” Heavy breathing. “They took off my suit, and I could still breathe. Air, inside. They poked me, dumped dirt or sand at my feet. They wanted something. Like they were trying to talk to me, but I had no idea how to answer. Burned my legs pretty bad. And my hand, Jesus, my hand.”

He made a sound. So did I.

“The bleeding’s stopped, but I can’t use it … I always was a gutless wonder. Even now I’m too scared to kill myself.” The middy’s tormented voice rose. “Why the
hell
did they do that to my hand? Got … inside it. Tore it open. Christ.”

Absently I raised fingers to my cheeks, but couldn’t wipe them through the helmet.

“They took me somewhere else … another fish. Think I blacked out. Parts of the launch in here too. Not long now. Plenty of oxygen, all those tanks the launch had for passengers, but I can’t last. Feverish, can’t keep anything down.”

From
Olympiad,
deathly silence.

“Mr Seafort, I wish … doesn’t really matter, but God, I want to know: was it worth it? Are you saved? I don’t really mind dying for that; you saved
me.
From myself. I was an awful shit, the way I treated your middies. Doesn’t matter now. But
Challenger
drifted out of view when I hit. If only I knew … Christ, only I knew … only …

My hand crept to the commcord. I’d have to pull it. Fath would understand.

“Sir, if by some miracle you read this and I’m still alive, you’ll cane the hell out of me for insolence. But I wa—want … want to say … damn it, can’t stop crying … not your fault. I wanted to take the launch, didn’t give you a chance to say no. My fault. Wouldn’t do it again, not for anything. One other thing, sir: I tried so hard to be like you. Couldn’t. You’re a hard man to live up to. Tamarov revered you, and Carr, and of course I—oh God oh God here they come again if they leave me alive I’ll come back on this is Midshipman Philip Tyre of UNS
Challenger
signing—”

Hiss.

I forwarded to the end. Nothing.

“Kill them.”

No response.

“Fath, kill them all, like Palabee said. Don’t spare my fish. Get every one.”

“Randy …
It was Joanne Skor.
“Mr Seafort … can’t speak at the moment. Stand by.”

“KILL THEM!” I aimed a kick at the hovering outrider.

SQUIGGLE SHIP?

“Fuck you all.” I jabbed the squiggle mark, with an outrider at the end of it. “Squiggle you, you evil bas—”

YES.
The outriders skittered about the chamber, overgrown amoebas in mass rapture.
SMALL TIME. SQUIGGLE SHIP DOTS.

“Huh? Ms Skor, they’re literally climbing the walls. I told them to squiggle themselves. I think they like it, but they want me to squiggle dots. Now they’re—whoa, the fish is undulating. The deck is heaving; it’s making the console slide … they’re moving it toward me. I think they want me to take it.”

“Then, take it!”

Right. “Where? I’m a frazzing prisoner.”

“
Olympiad,
Lieutenant Riev at Admiralty, speaking for Mr Kenzig. You are to—”

Lieutenant? Last week Alon had been a mere middy, and not a very pleasant one. He moved fast.

“—engage the enemy with all resources. Plot a course to geosync over the Venturas forthwith. Maintain that position until all fish in theater are destroyed. Acknowledge.”

“Admiralty, Watch Officer Joanne Skor acknowledging
—
”