Strider's Galaxy (13 page)

Two Pockets—the ones on the far right and far left—were different from the others. They were reserved, the aliens had somewhat chillingly explained, for communications. Even more than observation of planets, this brought it home that The Wondervale was
rich
in technological civilizations.

#

"How many of you are there?" Strider had asked, not long after the revelation that the trans-reality aliens could do most things but couldn't guide the
Santa Maria
home.

WE ARE THREE.

Once more she saw a strange flicker out of the side of her eye. "I wish I could see you."

YOU HAVE JUST SEEN ONE OF US.

"I mean, see you properly."

YOU JUST HAVE.

"What do you look like? To each other?"

LIKE WHAT YOU HAVE JUST SEEN. ALTHOUGH WE CAN SEE EACH OTHER DIRECTLY, NOT JUST MOMENTARILY THROUGH THE EDGES OF OUR VISION.

"All I've been able to see is the occasional fleeting patch of light," she said.

"Me too," said Nelson. "I'm not sure quite how much I like this, gentle lady. If I've gotta meet aliens, I want them to be
there
. I don't mind if they look like double-pronged sea anemones, but I want to be able to shake their . . . well, tendrils, I guess."

WE'RE DIFFERENT,
said the trilling voice in the two humans' minds.
WE HAVE NO FLESH. WE SHOW OURSELVES—WE CAN SEE OURSELVES—ONLY AS IMAGES.

"Can we call you that?" said Strider. "Images?"

IT IS A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER,
said the voice.
IT DOES NOT OFFEND US.

"And there are three of you?"

WE HAVE JUST SAID AS MUCH.

"Do you have individual names?"

YES. WE ARE INDIVIDUALS. THOSE NAMES ARE NOT EASILY TRANSLATABLE INTO CONCEPTS THAT YOUR CULTURE CAN UNDERSTAND.

Strider shrugged uneasily. She'd heard this before. It wasn't easy to be constantly reminded that your species were the dimwits of the Universe, however true that might be. Humanity was clearly, by the standards of the Images, a very young civilization. Yeah, that was a better way of thinking about it: not so much thick as just an infant, undereducated but with the potential for genius. In a few million years humanity could probably beat the Images at four-handed chess.

"What would you like us to call you?"

For the first time the three voices stopped speaking/singing in unison.

THE NEAREST WE CAN TRANSLATE TO MY NAME IS HEARTFIRE,
said one of them.

AND I AM NIGHTMIRROR,
said the next.

There was a pause before the last one said:
YOU HAD BEST CALL ME TEN PER CENT EXTRA FREE
.

"That's a goddam silly name," muttered Nelson.

"I don't think we're in much of a position to describe things as goddam silly," Strider hissed. "We're the ones who were too goddam silly to be able to avoid a wormhole—remember?"

Nelson mumbled something that, probably fortunately, Strider couldn't quite make out.

"How can we tell you apart?" she said.

BY DISCOVERING OUR PERSONALITIES,
said the three voices, once again in that almost-unison.

#

Pinocchio lay on his back in a field of potatoes, staring up at a field of barley. In reconstructing the
Santa Maria
the Images had done many things, most notably replacing the drive with one that relied on tachyonic interactions. The drive had yet to be initiated: the ship was currently just floating. Even when the drive was in operation, Pinocchio had discovered from the Images, because it was capable of trans-light speeds, it produced no accelerative gravity; the Images had therefore reintroduced the spin which the
Santa Maria
had long ago used to produce a centrifugal equivalent of Mars-standard. The fields were folded back flat against the interior of the hull once more.

The Images had saved his life—he was perfectly aware of that. More accurately, they had been able to release him from the intellectual stasis into which he had had to enter in order to get the ship's basic systems up and running. But, in releasing him, they had also changed him. He suspected that they had left a part of themselves inside him—that this was the only reason why he was once more alive.

Because he
was
different now. An extra element had been added to his consciousness. He wasn't sure if he'd become more human or more alien: it was difficult to tell, having never had direct experience of being either.

He sat up, and plunged a hand into the earth beside him. He found a small potato, and carefully, with his fingers, severed it from its neighbors. Knowing that what he was doing was illegal, he lifted the potato to his lips, relishing its earthy smell. Then, giving himself no time to think about his action, he put it in his mouth and ate it, enjoying both its taste and its crispness. He couldn't actually swallow it, of course, because he had no throat and thereafter no digestive tract, but he could experience the
sensation
of eating.

After a minute he spat out the shreds of undigested potato.

What he had done had given him
pleasure
. He had
tasted
. These things had been abstractions before the Images had overhauled him. He had been aware that various events were better than others—he liked it when Strider kissed him on the cheek, disliked it when she was angry with him—but everything had been distanced. Things had been good because they were in accord with one of his imperatives; things had been bad because they were in discord with another. Now he was experiencing events directly: he was
feeling
.

He was about to pluck himself another potato when the whole of the
Santa Maria
shook.

#

"What in the name of Holy Umbel was that?" said Strider, jolted out of drowsiness. It was too easy to half-doze off here on the command deck now that the Images had largely taken over control of the
Santa Maria
—hell, they more or less
were
the
Santa Maria
. Soon they would finish their conversions and the ship could do something more constructive than seemingly hang in space.

WE ARE UNDER ATTACK,
said the voice which she now recognized as that of Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

The
Santa Maria
had not originally been designed as a warcraft. The Images had transformed it in many ways. The shuttles in the blisters along its sides were now armed with weapons that Strider barely understood. The ship itself was surrounded with invisible defenses that were totally incomprehensible to her, and was itself bristling with armaments. All she knew about this diverse weaponry was that in most cases using it obeyed the general laws of weaponry that had been in existence since the discovery of the efficacy of throwing a rock: aim it in the right direction, and fire. A few of the
Santa Maria
's weapons weren't even like that: they weren't so much directional as radiational.

"Who's attacking us, dammit? We ain't done nothing!"

Strider leapt to the nearest Pocket and jabbed her head into it. She desired it to create for her a representation of the aggressor.

She stood back, and at once the Pocket filled up with blackness. In the center of the blackness floated a craft shaped roughly like a mallet with nails sticking out of the handle. From one of the nails a spark of light flashed directly towards her eyes. She flinched reflexively.

The
Santa Maria
shook again.

O'Sondheim was on the deck with her. Sometime during the hell of the wormhole he had rediscovered his purpose in being; Strider still wasn't overly fond of him, but she had learned to respect the new O'Sondheim.

He moved rapidly to one of the communications Pockets.

"Can we speak to these people?" he shouted to the air.

WE CAN TRY TO OPEN UP A COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL,
Ten Per Cent Extra Free said to both of them.

"Then do so, please," said O'Sondheim, more calmly.

"Can we shoot the fuckers out of space?" said Strider. The
Santa Maria
was
hers
. Anyone attacking it was like someone attacking
her
.

WE WOULD HAVE A THREE PER CENT CHANCE OF SUCCESS,
said Ten Per Cent Extra Free.
THAT IS ABOUT THE SAME CHANCE THAT THEY HAVE OF DESTROYING US. WE ARE BETTER TO FOLLOW MR O'SONDHEIM'S PLAN AND TRY TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS.

"Can't we just turn on the drive and get the hell out of here?"

OUR AGGRESSORS HAVE A TACHYONIC DRIVE ALSO. THEY WOULD MERELY FOLLOW US.

"I'm getting something," said O'Sondheim. Strider darted to join him.

The communications Pocket was glowing. There was no coherent image in it yet, but flashes in its midst suggested that one was forming.

"I'd like to blast the fuckers as well," confided O'Sondheim. Back on Mars, in one of the tackier bars where the officers had got to know each other after training sessions designed, uselessly, to help them get to know each other, Strider had once seen how O'Sondheim preferred to defend himself: by hitting the other guy first.

WE COULD TRY IT IF YOU WISH,
said Ten Per Cent Extra Free coolly,
BUT I DO NOT THINK IT ADVISABLE.

"Yeah. We got that message," Strider snapped.

At last there was something emerging in the Pocket. The
Santa Maria
rocked yet again.

"But couldn't we just sort of shoot something across their bows?" she added.

IT WOULD BE A WASTE OF WEAPONRY. BESIDES, THEY MAY NOT BE OUR ENEMIES.

"They're not exactly behaving like friends," she said.

IN THE WONDERVALE IT IS INADVISABLE TO ASSUME ANYONE YOU ENCOUNTER MIGHT BE A FRIEND.

"Oh. Great."

Something that could have been called a face appeared in the Pocket. It seemed to be covered in small triangular scales. It had a row of what Strider supposed were eyes dotted around what seemed to be its chin. Above them there was what could be a mouth. The thing that could have been—probably was—a mouth was emitting a harsh jabbering noise.

I WILL TRANSLATE,
said Nightmirror, who had joined Ten Per Cent Extra Free on the deck.

The jabbering cut off very suddenly, to be replaced by words that Strider and O'Sondheim could understand.

." . . trespassing into space claimed by the Autarch Nalla and his emissary Kaantalech. You will subjugate yourselves to—"

"No we won't," said O'Sondheim. "You just go subjugate yourself."

"I think," murmured Strider, "that perhaps a little tact is called for." She knew how he felt: she felt the same herself. This was the schoolyard bully picking without warning on one of the smaller kids. It was always fun to see the kid sock the bully smack on the nose. The trouble was, you never knew if the bully's big brother or sister was lurking somewhere around.

"I am Captain Leonie Strider of the starship
Santa Maria
," she said to the face in the Pocket. "We are travelling peacefully from Mars to Tau Ceti
II
. You have attacked us without provocation."

"I have never heard of either world," said the face dismissively. "It doesn't matter. You are trespassers here."

Strider turned away from the Pocket. "Ready an implosion bolt," she said to Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

I WOULD NOT ADVISE IT.

"I would," she said, turning back to the Pocket.

"Mars lies in Heaven's Ancestor," she lied smoothly, "and Tau Ceti
II
is in the Milky Way galaxy, which is probably too distant for your rudimentary technology to have detected. We are merely pausing in The Wondervale to observe." She sniffed, wondering if Nightmirror was able to translate body language as effectively as spoken words. "So far, we don't much like what we've observed."

Yes. The face in the Pocket looked affronted. "There are no developed species in Heaven's Ancestor," it said.

"You're so sure?" said Strider. "Release that bolt," she subvocalized to Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

IF YOU SAY SO.

"I do."

She moved across to the next Pocket and dipped her head into it. The miniature replica of the alien craft sprang quickly into view. Even as she watched, its defense shields flared briefly red. An implosion bolt, she knew from the Images, had the effect of draining energy and matter from the vicinity of wherever it impacted. It could travel well in excess of the speed of light, as could most of the
Santa Maria
's new, Image-built weaponry: they'd incorporated the tachyon drive into, it seemed, everything that moved.
Can't have hurt those shits too much,
she thought,
but with luck it'll have given them one hell of a shock.

It evidently had, she saw the moment she returned to O'Sondheim's side in front of the communications Pocket. Earlier, the scene behind the reptiloid face had been calm. Although she hadn't been much aware of it, she had sensed that various creatures were methodically going about their duties. She wished that she'd concentrated more on what had been happening in that background: she might have gained useful information. Now, it was impossible to make out much except that there was a frenzy of motion.

"I didn't want to do that," she said quietly to the face. "I wouldn't have, if you hadn't fired on the
Santa Maria
first. That's the very least of our weaponry—if we wanted to, we could disintegrate you from here." She swallowed. She was alarmed at the ease with which she was lying.
Call it "bluffing," Leonie,
she said to herself.
It sounds so much more respectable.
"But, as I told you, we're on a peaceful mission. We don't want to interfere with your people unless we have to."

"We should talk further," said the face tightly.

"Indeed we should. Tell me about your tinpot little dictator—and about yourself. I've identified myself and my craft: pay me the respect of doing likewise."

She gestured to O'Sondheim to bring her a seat, then sank gratefully into it. She closed her eyes while the Pocket instantaneously adjusted its height.