Star Trek (5 page)

The temperature within the tunnel rose, to at least thirty-five degrees she estimated, feeling the sweat trickle down her back. A sharp, sulfurous tang watered her eyes and scratched at the back of her throat. From the deep breaths the chiptaurs were taking she guessed this was a good thing.

The tunnel abruptly opened into an irregular chamber, roughly thirty meters across, well lit by hundreds of glowing baskets. Corsi fought gagging against the stench of chemicals as she looked around. This was obviously something special to the chiptaurs and her collapsing in a spasming heap would probably spoil the moment.

Two streams, each staining the gray rocks around it with orange and red chemicals, poured from the walls, their flows caught in a series of troughs. The troughs in turn carried the water to a series of pools. Something about the interconnected waterways snagged a corner of Corsi's mind, but it was gone before she could catch it. Vents in the floor of the chamber released pungent steam; she estimated the temperature to be somewhere above forty now. From the bubbling of the pools, she guessed there were also vents under the water.

Most of the pools had a chiptaur occupying a low couch of carved wood. Other chiptaurs moved about, apparently providing their seated relatives with food and water or just companionship.

Her guides presented Corsi to each of the reclining chiptaurs in turn. She repeated her self-identification and expression of joy at being there when she thought it was indicated, wondering if she was being at last introduced to royalty of some sort. For their part the seated chiptaurs repeated the two clicky-tick phrases she'd heard so often.

As part of each interview she was directed to regard the bubbling pool of water. Some contained dozens of what appeared to be glass spheres, similar to ancient fishing net floats, others had various numbers of what looked to Corsi like koi, only mottled copper and black instead of white and gold. One pool seemed to contain a pair of large tadpoles, with two sets of legs and arms in addition to their stubby tails.

Corsi parsed that there was some connection between the contents of the pool and the status or office of the chiptaur presiding over it. Or at least she thought there was. With the complete lack of language it was hard to be sure.

They came at last to a pool with no one beside it. The attendant chiptaurs, smaller than any Corsi had yet seen but with the brown on brown color scheme she associated with females, were just finishing arranging pounded felt blankets over the couch and arranging shallow bowls of what looked like berries nearby.

Head Nurse turned to her and took both her hands into her upper pair. Sensing this was a solemn moment, Corsi dropped to one knee, drawing a sharp breath at her back's protest, to bring herself at eye level with the chiptaur.

The nurse chiptaur spoke at some length. While there was nothing in the tones of her chitters, clicks, and ticks that corresponded to human speech, Corsi had the impression it was something along the lines of a benediction.

“Amen,” she said when the speech was finally over. “And same to you. Really.”

Apparently satisfied, the head nurse dropped Corsi's hands and settled herself on the reclining couch the attendants had prepared. Corsi decided her earlier guess had been right. Head Nurse was a member of some sort of ruling class. Whether she ruled because of her size or had put on weight due to the extra calories being waited on entailed wasn't clear.

Corsi's two remaining nurse guides made it plain she was to leave with them. As she followed Lefty and Spot down the tunnel toward the outside world she wondered what having a personal nurse on the ruling council said about her status as a guest—or prisoner—of the chiptaurs.

P
attie awoke to discover the dirt and piles of plants had been cleared from around her cage. Looking about she spied what she thought were the zookeeper's legs extending beneath a counter that held a variety of small cages a half-dozen meters away.

She decided it was best not to startle someone who might be handling a dangerous animal and waited for him to finish whatever he was doing. When he stepped into view, Pattie rose to her hind legs to bring her eye level as close to his as possible. It took her a moment to decide it was indeed the same fellow she'd met the day before.

“Good morning,” she said.

A sibilant mutter responded from a pocket in the zookeeper's trousers. The man tried to jump away from his own pants.

“Still have my combadge, I see,” Pattie said conversationally.

The zookeeper stopped dancing and swatting at his pocket. He stared at her wide-eyed, his mouth agape.

Humanoid dumbstruck amazement,
Pattie observed.
That one's definitely universal
.

“In my culture, when we discover we've mistaken a sentient being for an animal, common courtesy dictates we release her from captivity and return her belongings,” she said. “Do your people have a similar custom?”

The zookeeper pulled her combadge from his pocket and held it in the flat of his palm. Eyes fixed on Pattie, he stepped closer to the cage. For a moment she dared hope he was actually going to give it back and let her out of the cage, but he stopped a meter beyond her reach.

Why is it never the easy way
?

“Who are you?” the zookeeper asked, bending toward her. “What is this thing?”

Not wearing the combadge, Pattie could hear both the zookeeper's words and the translation. She was surprised by the liquid sibilance of the language. Given his gray skin and dark clothing, Pattie had expected her captor's speech to sound like Cardassian. A silly bit of prejudice, she realized.

“My name is P8 Blue, though I'm known informally as Pattie,” she answered the literal question. “The device you took from me is my combadge.”

“How does it work?”

“As you can hear, it's a translator,” Pattie said, keeping her tone pleasant. She wasn't going to lie; lies were too hard to keep straight. But she wasn't going to volunteer any information, either.

For a moment the zookeeper seemed to accept that noninformation as an answer.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Pretty far away,” Pattie said. “The vehicle I was traveling in sank in the bog. Were you the one who rescued me?”

“Yes,” the zookeeper seemed surprised to be asked a question. “My name is Solal. I am a [student animal husbandry authority].”

Pattie recognized the awkward phrasing of a term the universal translator couldn't render exactly.

“Either you've lost some arms and legs,” Pattie said, diverting the conversation, “or you're not from around here.”

In fact, Pattie had a pretty good idea where Solal was from. If she was right, the Prime Directive was in full effect; do or say nothing to indicate civilizations on other planets nor interfere with civilization on this one. Aided by the eight-extremitied physiology of the local fauna, she was going to play Zhatyra II native.

If possible, she was going to get her combadge and disappear into the forest until the
da Vinci
arrived. Failing that, she was going to focus on avoiding vivisection until Captain Gold rescued her.

And Commander Corsi
.

“I come from beyond the sky,” Solal was saying.

“Really?” Pattie asked, packing the word with amazed interest. “Literally? Not metaphorically? Fascinating. Pull up a chair and tell me about it.”

Whatever Solal would have said died with the sound of a distant door opening and closing. Suddenly tense, he leaned close to the cage.

“Do not speak,” he hissed. “Animals that speak are killed.”

Pattie nodded, shocked.

Solal stood, then as quickly stooped again.

“What do you eat?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”

Student animal husbandry authority,
Pattie thought.
Keep the livestock healthy
.

“Just distilled water,” she said aloud. “Local food doesn't agree with me.”

Solal nodded and rose again. Wrapping Pattie's combadge in a rag, he shoved it deep into the back of a drawer in a nearby cabinet just as another of his kind arrived.

Pattie held perfectly still, making no move that might attract the newcomer's attention.

She guessed from his build that the new arrival was also male and, from the texture of his skin, older. His hair was a darker red than Solal's, almost a brown, and he seemed to have about twenty percent more mass, most of it girth. Perhaps Solal was an adolescent.

The newcomer, folio of some sort in hand, seemed to be reviewing information it contained with Solal. If Solal was a student, the newcomer's attitude indicated he was a teacher animal husbandry authority. Senior zookeeper at any rate. Apparently satisfied with whatever Solal had to report, the elder zookeeper then issued what sounded like a series of instructions or list of tasks.

He turned his back to Pattie, evidently pointing in the direction of something beyond the walls of the menagerie.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Pattie lowered herself to all eights, making no sudden moves that might attract his attention. Carefully, as silently as possible, she backed into the packing case shelter Solal had provided. Easing herself as far into its shadow as she could, she settled down to wait.

Animals that speak are killed
.

“A
nother week.” Fabian Stevens glared into the fire.

Bart Faulwell, seated across the table from his friend, shook his head sympathetically. The two had met for lunch at a tavern in a ski resort in Pludnt. Their table was comfortably near a massive fireplace, the exact mirror of its twin at the other end of the long room paneled in dark and highly figured woods.

A few thousand kilometers to the south hundreds of solar mirrors focused their light on the face of the southern polar ice floe, starting the water on its journey north to irrigate the temperate zone. Here, however, the snow-clad slopes of long extinct volcanoes provided the best skiing in the southern hemisphere.

It was dark outside, Stevens and Bart's personal lunchtime coinciding with local dinner, and the tavern was filled with what Bart assumed were tourists. They had the festive air of people far from home and responsibilities.

It was remarkable to him that on a world close to global famine, populated by a people who across a dozen regional cultures were emphatically uninterested in events beyond their horizons, tourism was a universal passion. He'd discussed it with Carol Abramowitz. The cultural specialist had explained global tourism was a recent phenomenon, something that had developed in the last two centuries.

When the Bundinalli had developed warp drive and discovered space around them was crowded with dozens of alien species and civilizations, their definitions of “local” and “familiar” had undergone a radical change. Now they routinely took vacations to places their great-grandparents hadn't even imagined. But fundamental natures didn't change that quickly. Tourism off-planet was essentially nonexistent. For all their newfound mobility, their destinations were still local.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their meal. The local specialty was a game animal that tasted very much like lamb roasted with dried fruit put up in the traditional manner—dried in front of the very hearth they were enjoying now—from the previous summer's growing season. They both had identical platters; local rules of symmetry did not allow different meals to be served at the same table, and the aroma was enticing.

Bart carved a forkful of meat and skewered a slice of fruit. Good. Every bit as good as the aroma. If he were stationed here another week he'd probably put on a kilo.

He said as much to Stevens.

“It's good,” his friend said. “Almost in a league with
rastentha
soufflé.”

Bart snorted. Stevens had been singing the praises of the Brohtz specialty to anyone who would listen.

“Any luck finding someone willing to program it into the replicators?” he asked.

“Not yet.” Stevens shrugged. “Soloman said he'd look into it once the present mission was over, but…”

He let his voice trail off.

“What did Corsi say when you told her about the delay?” Bart asked.

“Nothing,” Stevens said, slicing a thick chunk of meat from his portion. “Just the automated response from the shuttle.”

“Isn't that unusual?”

“Not really,” Stevens gestured with his laden fork. “Like Tev said, the Zhatyra observational array was due for its ten-year download when the war broke out. They've got one cloaked satellite they know is down and eleven more that need their recordings downloaded, memories purged, and other routine maintenance. Even with the extra week Dom and Pattie will probably still be at it when we get there.”

Bart said nothing. The additional week was only an estimate. They both knew that if the S.C.E. couldn't get a handle on stabilizing the Bundinalli water system in that time they would be here even longer.

Reaching into his shoulder bag propped against the leg of the table, Bart pulled out a leather folio and placed it on the table.

“Here.”

Stevens looked at the folio, then at Bart. “What? Your letters to Anthony?”

“No. I replicated a folio for you,” Bart explained. “It's just like the one I use for writing to Anthony. I figured you might like writing to Commander Corsi.”

“Writing to—I'll be seeing her in a week or so.”

“I know that,” Bart said. “I also know that when I write letters to Anthony they don't actually go anywhere until I see him again and can put them in his hand. But when I'm thinking about him, writing
to
him is the best way I know to feel as though he's there with me.”

“Oh.” Stevens picked up the folio and hefted it. “Thanks. I'll have to try that.”

Lacking a shoulder bag, he set the folio on the edge of the table at his elbow.

Bart reached into the bag again and drew out his own folio. Eyeing the location of Stevens's, he placed his carefully on the edge of the table at his own elbow.

Catching his friend's questioning look, he waved his hand, indicating their precisely symmetrical surroundings.

“Just in case,” he explained.