Pride of the People - A Novella in Many Parts

[Jim Gamma]

Background: This novella was created in 2005, and underwent heavy editing thereafter. It's about 75k words, and I would like to post it here as a kind of "Open Beta" as I edit it once more.

Please be aware that this work is Copyrighted to the individual known online as "Jim Gamma".

Starfall

Generation Ship ‘Pride of the People’, Date Unknown

Cold, infinite and black – that was how the People described the great vacuum of space. It was colder than anything the People could imagine; more infinite than the stars in the sky and blacker than an unlit room in the depths of the People’s vessel. Except, of course, for the stars; bright pinpricks of heat and light that barely touched the People from so far away. It was clearly a miracle, then, that this small abode of life was able to survive – warm, finite and bright as it was, it seemed antithetical to the idea of the void. The bubble of life wheeled through space, ignoring the imperative that it should not – could not – exist.

The gentle hum of the great engines, some way below the living quarters Vrakbeltret knew as her home, was as constant as breath in the living. Most of the time, nobody noticed it, but now, Vrakbeltret listened closely to the soft, relaxing vibrations. The power cells that drove the generation ship Pride of the People kept the People alive as much as their breath; they had done so for thousands – maybe even millions – of years. No-one knew for certain. The ship was so old that many believed that life had evolved on the Pride. The Rituals were unclear on the subject; instead, they were concerned with the proper running of the Pride and government of the People.

Vrakbeltret breathed deeply, stretching her body to ward off the last vestiges of unconsciousness. She unfolded her legs and arms, rising from her dormancy area and switching off her chronometer’s alert signal. As she stood, she uttered the words of the Ritual of the New Cycle.

“O Great Gods that rule this Vessel, I thank You, for You kept my body safe while I was dormant,” she intoned. “I pray that You shall lead me through this new Cycle, so that I may accomplish Your Will.” Walking into the Cleanliness Area, she activated the Cleanser, saying, “For this gift of water, I thank You. I cleanse my body as You instruct, and pray that my actions this Cycle may show due thanks and reverence.” Once she had finished the Ritual, she left her living area and walked sedately to the Communal Area.

Few of the People were out of their cabins, as First Sakorak had barely started; she clasped her arms together when she did see others, though, and greeted them as the Rituals dictated – “May the Gods bless this Cycle.” Upon completion of the Sustenance Ritual, she still had half a porak before she was due to take up her new duties. To pass the time, she found a nearby Observation Station and gazed at the stars in wonder. Did the Vessel ever circle those stars? Did it call one of them home, or has the Vessel always drifted? She allowed herself to become lost in thought for a while.

The People could trace their history for millennia, or so it was said. No originating star system was known to exist, but there were rumours. Some believed that records existed from aeons ago. Where such records could be kept, Vrakbeltret had no idea. It was said that not even the Vrakzol knew. All that remained of what had been, according to the myths, were the Rituals, followed religiously by the People – and they could rightly call it religion, she thought as she gazed around the communal area, though it was more a Way of Life. Each Ritual had its own story, and each had its own history. The Vrakzol kept track of what needed to be done and when; the People, they claimed, would never be able to remember all the Rituals; besides, thought Vrakbeltret, why confuse them with such elaborate instructions when simplicity would suffice?
The void was cold, unforgiving and harsh; the People had often been required to undergo Rituals to save energy, such as the one Vrakbeltret remembered from her first few years of life, so that the ship might try to replenish its energies from the Void. She did not understand how or why the Vessel could replenish itself, but she assumed it was much like the People’s need for sleep each Cycle. Understandably, then, there was much rejoicing among the People whenever sufficient energy levels could be maintained, and the Vrakzol allowed enormous celebrations in the Observation Decks. There was all the more joy when the Pride was about to achieve Starfall, as it was now, becoming ensnared in a star’s gravity well. The star’s heat and light – the primary energy source of the Pride, according to the Rituals – could provide for the People for many years.

As the ship drifted towards the latest solar system in the long chain of solar systems it had visited, the Vrakzol had commanded that special Rituals be undergone. Vrakbeltret felt honoured to be part of these Rituals, even in a small way. Sealed rooms that had not been opened since the last solar system had appreciably warmed the vessel were cracked open; stale air wafted from the rooms, causing olfactory irritation to the Ritual’s participants. The Control Centre, which normally lay unused save for emergencies, was filled with activity as the Vessel’s progress was slowed down, and the giant Sun Snares were released, allowing the Vessel to drink the light it so desperately needed to recharge its energy cells. Vrakbeltret’s function was mostly to exist in this Ritual, but she relished the chance to observe her colleagues as they went about their tasks with extreme vigour.

Only upon completion of these tasks could the more exciting Rituals begin, although Vrakbeltret would still only observe. Very few of the People had ever lived – or indeed could ever live – to see these Rituals twice; often, several generations might pass between two occurrences, so the People always rejoiced heartily, basking in the rare time of plenty provided by the new sun. The power cells might take several years to recharge, depending on their compatibility with the new sun’s light; after this, a new destination would be sought, and the ship would be readied for departure once more, in accordance with the Rituals. But that was a blissfully long time in the future.

To ease the strain on the Pride, it would be parked in orbit of a planetary body. Many of the People had trained for years, in the hope that they might be asked to help perform this vital rite. There could only be a few, and competition was intense; though all were dutifully joyful for the Chosen Attendants. Certain tasks were required of the Chosen, in order that an appropriate planet be selected. The planet would need to be large, so that orbit could be achieved with ease, but small enough that, once the vessel declared itself to be ready, it could escape; everyone knew that this Ritual’s incorrect completion would mean catastrophe. On the other hand, correctly completing the Rituals would be a sign that their stay in this sun system would be bounteous and joyous.

The Pride’s sensors reported a large planetary system on this occasion; eight planets orbited the same sun, four of which were Laktarak-grade, and therefore much too large. In any case, they were too far from the system’s sun. Of the remaining four planets, two were too close to the sun. Of the other two – one red, according to the Star-Seers who held the far-seeing Telescopes, and the other a mix of greens, blues and whites – the closest to the sun was selected, as the other would be on the opposite side of the sun before they could catch up with it, and would require more energy to reach.

The Vessel drifted through the outer system, and Vrakbeltret could see that they were passing increasing numbers of space rocks, some as big as, or bigger than, the Pride itself. As they neared the orbit of the first Laktarak planet, they began to thin out, dwindling to just a few tiny rocks, which could be handled by the Pride’s defensive mechanisms. The tension eased for a few Cycles, but she had heard whispers of yet more debris between the red planet and the innermost Laktarak planet. For an instant as they passed through the second debris field, she thought her console became active, but the lights switched off just as quickly, and she put it down to her imagination.

As the ship approached the target planet, the Telescopes and Computer-Assisted Sights were abandoned; instead, the outer rim of the ship was filled with awed spectators, eager to catch the first unaided glimpse of the rapidly growing planet. The swirling pearl-whites, the deep blues and the verdant greens reported by the Star-Seers would appear soon thereafter, but always the first glimpse of a planet was the prize for Vrakbeltret’s colleagues in the bulk of the ship – those in the Control Centre had already seen it in detail. The Pride’s labyrinthine corridors were vacated, save for those of the People who were travelling between work, their dormancy areas and the vast viewing points in the observation areas on the outer rim.

Naturally, of the ship’s occupants, only the Chosen knew the reasons behind this choice; the rest just knew that the Rituals required the use of the Command Centre and trusted the Chosen – including Vrakbeltret – to comply with the Rituals’ more in-depth instructions. Whilst the Attendants had some contingency training, in case of deviation from the expected path of the Ritual, even they did not truly understand their tasks, much to Vrakbeltret’s relief – she found her shell turning green at the thought of having to understand the rituals as fully as the Vrakzol did. The vessel’s Computer-Gods would take care of everything, and pass instructions to the Vrakzol, whose lot it was to comprehend and pass on relevant instructions.

Not that any of the Vrakbel – or, for that matter, any other People – would wish to understand the Computer-Gods’ commands – they were too busy rejoicing and celebrating the newly-borrowed sun’s light and energy. Their voyage had been hard, and the time of celebration would allow the People to forget their hardships, at least for a while. Indeed, if the planet they orbited was of the proper configuration, as determined by the Computer-Gods at closer range, they may even land for a time! Not for too long – just enough that the vessel could prepare itself for departure once more.

This time, however, the Rituals were interrupted.

The ship’s Command Centre was brought to a standstill by the one unused control panel, which suddenly sprang to life. The display above it lit up, and Vrakbeltret, who had been watching the rest of the Command Centre’s activity with an unaccustomed tinge of pink jealousy threatening to reach her shell, spun around on her stool in surprise. This control panel was never supposed to become active, but the Rituals specified that someone had to tend it. Remembering her years of training, the attendant sprang to her feet and uttered the Holy Words, revered by all as heralding a new kind of Ritual – one that nobody had ever undergone before.

“We detect transmissions from the planet we approach,” she intoned in the Ancient Language of the Builders, feeling pride in being chosen as the Most Exalted One, chosen to receive the Gifts of the Planet before anyone else on the Vessel.

The Command Centre was silent, as its attendants awaited the response from the High Governor that they knew must come. Sure enough, the High Governor stood up from the seat in the centre of the Command Centre and turned to face Vrakbeltret, asking, “From where, Exalted One?”

“The entire Planet sends messages, but they do not appear to hear our replies,” she replied, reading the Ancient Language from the screen above her console. “The Computer-Gods cannot obtain a meaningful response; the Planet may be unaware of us.”

“Answer the Call, Exalted One,” he intoned, “and let the planet know we hear it.”

“As the Governor commands,” Vrakbeltret nodded, and pressed the buttons that would allow the Governor to send his own transmissions. Once this was done, she reverently stepped back, pride filling her shell, which she allowed to show a hint of gold so that all may know that she was the Instrument of the Vessel – chosen not only to hear the Planet’s Call, but to respond! If her transmissions brought about a meaningful answer from the Planet, she might even be the first to set foot on the surface – the glory that awaited her would be supreme!

“We have communication,” she intoned. “This channel allows us to address part of the Planet. The Computer-Gods still try to gain meaningful two-way communications; they make some progress.”

The Governor nodded. “Activate the speech and vision transmitters,” he commanded, then paused for her to give the ritual response – “You may speak” – and finally began to talk to the Planet.

[RJDiogenes]

Just as intriguing and classical as when I first read it. Hard SF in the Analog style. This really deserves to be published somewhere, Jim.

[Jim Gamma]

Thanks!

Next bit's coming soon, with luck.

[Jim Gamma]

Next (big) bit - end of Chapter 1, and Chapter 2. Reasonably happy with it, but not sure if I should have prolonged it a bit more.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 28 May

The object had first appeared on a routine scan of the sky about the southern hemisphere of Earth by astronomers working at the Mount Stromlo Observatory in Canberra, Australia. At first, the team, led by Dr. Christopher Morrow, thought it to be a new asteroid, perhaps knocked toward the inner system from the Kuiper Belt, so they simply classified and studied it for a few months. Its speed was above that of any previously discovered object in the solar system, but it initially seemed otherwise unremarkable. However, on the discovery that it was heading directly for Earth, Morrow’s team quickly warned the world’s major governments, who swiftly agreed to keep its presence hidden until a solution could be found, to avoid mass panic. They were not altogether successful, since news stations across the globe were given the news by amateur astronomers.

Morrow groaned inwardly as he read the newspaper articles that had been published over the last few weeks. Yet another press conference was going to be needed, no doubt. How, he wondered, was he supposed to research this object when all his time was taken up with constant reminders to the world’s people that a solution was still being sought?

Then the object did something no-one – least of all the scientists – could have predicted.

The large vessel – for it had to be a vessel, rather than a comet or asteroid – appeared to be slowing and changing course as it approached Earth. By now, the entire population of the planet knew of the approaching craft; despite the valiant attempts of super-secret governmental agencies that no-one was supposed to know about but, Morrow assumed, everyone did, it was impossible to prevent professional – and even amateur – astronomers from spotting “an ovoid the size of a small island on a collision course that was certain to wipe out every human being on the planet if it hit”, as he had termed it in a private conversation with a student – and there was still doubt as to whether it would hit, or simply whizz past the planet – which in itself could cause major problems.

The initial global response to what had initially been thought to be an asteroid had naturally been hysteria. With no way to defend against an object that size, the planet was doomed. But then, it had started expanding, and slowing. Now, the astronomers could see what looked like a fan of dark materials around it, and it was more likely to enter a stable – if rapid – orbit than to “crash and burn the entire planet” as one observer had commented.

The astronomers of the Anglo-Australian Observatory, who controlled the Mount Stromlo Observatory, held meeting after meeting, studying image after image, trying to determine just what was going to happen. So far, the hundreds of data points had merely swirled around inside the scientists’ heads, failing to accumulate in any meaningful form. The only information they could reliably give the Australian and British governments was that it was big, probably a vessel and likely to enter orbit within a few months. The Prime Ministers of both countries had asked endless questions – where had the craft come from? Who was aboard? Were they peaceful? Did they know of the existence of humankind? – but the scientists could answer none of them in any meaningful way.

Morrow glanced once more at one of the dozens of web-sites that had sprung up since the object’s discovery. This particular site had been put up by religious extremists, declaring the whole incident to be a fabrication on the part of the world’s governments, in order to quash organised religion. Morrow had seen such allegations hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the past few weeks, and, though he tried to see their point of view, he could not escape the scientific facts. Nor, he thought, could he emphasise enough the slimness of the chance that the governments of the world may have collaborated on such a scale that over one million amateur astronomers had reported the same facts as he had gleaned.

Then came the transmission. Strong enough to alert SETI investigators across the globe to the presence of alien intelligence, it was sufficient to trigger fervent activity by the AAO, NASA, ESA and many other observers – both professional and amateur. It was also directed squarely at Australasia – most likely, Morrow concluded, because this was the part of the planet facing the craft. The Earth’s response came quickly: a series of pulses showing the Fibonacci sequence, sent by the computers on specific frequencies, designed to show that the craft’s opening hail had been received, followed by open channels linked to computers for the craft to respond. Morrow quickly sent word to the Australian Prime Minister, Bradley Hartup, as his country was the apparent target of the transmission, and the strongest transmitters were prepared to send messages to the craft. The anxiety and thrill of Earth’s first contact with an alien species was replaced with a cool, measured mood throughout the planet. Then, the myriad computers on Earth detected a complex signal, and translated it into an audiovisual feed. The resolution had to be decreased significantly to display it, but, the scientists assured the Prime Minister, the difference would not be noticed.

Prime Minister Hartup activated the monitor in front of him, and was met by a large, circular room with dozens of control panels in view. At each of these control panels was what could only be described as an alien; in the centre was the grandest alien of all. His first impression was that these aliens were insects; their heads were connected to a central body – the thorax, if he remembered his school biology correctly – and then to a short, almost semicircular abdomen. The thorax held all six limbs; two were placed at the base, whilst the other four were midway up the thorax and at the top.

Most of the insects rested the front of their thoraxes on what Hartup guessed were the equivalent of stools, though the “seat” slanted up at around thirty degrees. They were using four limbs to work the consoles, and two to hold them up. The alien in the centre did not appear to have a console to work; its stool was set up to allow four of its limbs to rest on side-cushions slightly above ground level, and slanted, although it was currently standing erect. It was definitely the focus of the room – the other aliens were clearly waiting for it to do something. It did not disappoint.


We Are Not Alone

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 28 May

Stretching to his full height, High Governor Vrakzolfix hoped that his imposing figure was in an appropriate posture. His four arms were clasped together in a show of respect, and his head was straight, to indicate authority over the vessel. Taking care to keep his outer shell a neutral blue, suppressing the ripples of green that he knew would tell the planet of his nervousness, he took a deep breath. “We of the Pride of the People greet you of the Planet we approach, and wish you peace,” he stated, before glancing over at the Chosen One. She shook her head – no reply. “We desire communication and friendship. The People await your response with great anticipation.”

“High Governor, it is unlikely they understand our Language, even if they receive our transmission,” Vrakbeltret intoned, following the six keppaks with no response specified by the unfamiliar Ritual. Forcing her shell to become a happy yellow, she added, “The Computer-Gods exchange messages with something down there, but we know not what.”

Evaluating the Ritual’s instructions in his mind, the High Governor selected the appropriate response, his shell turning an authoritative crimson. “Once the Communications Panel indicates intelligent inter-computer transmission, send all of our language files, that they may understand us better.” He watched as the Attendant briefly inclined her head and pressed some switches which would set the task in motion. The Ritual had proceeded smoothly so far; for this, he was thankful. He could only pray to the Computer-Gods that this would continue. Issuing final instructions, he left the Command Centre in the capable hands of the Vrakbel underlings.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 2 June

Dr. Paola Garcia, one of the world’s premier linguists, allowed herself to gaze at the scenery about the Duffield and Woolley buildings of the Mount Stromlo Observatory. Whilst many of the observatory’s buildings had been destroyed by fire some years previously, leading to the construction of the new Advanced Instrumentation and Technology Centre, the Duffield and Woolley buildings held the computer suites in which she knew that many of the scientists here were attempting to understand the alien language. Alas, they were not having much luck, from the last bulletin she had read; for this reason, she had travelled across the country from her teaching post at the Charles Darwin University’s Casuarina campus, in order to provide first-hand assistance. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the building to begin what would perhaps be the most important research of her life.

The computer suite was abuzz with quiet discussion as she entered the room. Several monitors held views of the database that had been downloaded by the alien craft; scientists sat at each of the computers, trying combinations of linguistic constructs in a vain attempt to crack what may prove to be an impossible code. Spotting a scientist who clearly appeared to be in charge, she approached with an outstretched hand, and introduced herself briefly, and learned that the scientist’s name was Dr. Christopher Morrow. “What makes you think this is a language,” she asked, “and not some kind of computer code?”

“Partially this,” Morrow answered, indicating an image on one computer, clearly showing what appeared to be a line of symbols, etched in black on a white background. “We also have this,” he continued, pressing a key. As sound was emitted from the speakers, a blue circle appeared on the screen, moving across the characters from left to right, and vanishing as the sound cut out. “We think these symbols represent the alien’s words, but we’re not sure how they relate.”

“It could be a pictographic language,” Garcia answered, “but we need more to go on than just a few sound bytes and images.” She stepped over to the desk, and took a blue pencil. “Let me teach you some German, as an example.” Holding the pencil forward, she said, “Bleistift.”

“Pencil,” Morrow asserted.

“Are you certain? I could have been saying ‘Write’ or ‘Blue’, or any number of other things.”

“I learnt German at school, so yeah I’m certain,” Morrow grinned. “But your point’s well-taken: I wouldn’t have known if you meant ‘blue pencil’ if I hadn’t studied German; for all I knew, ‘blei’ could be a syllable meaning ‘blue’, and with the similarity between the syllables, I might have taken that as a point of reference by mistake.”

“Exactly,” Garcia answered, impressed. “We have no common frame of reference between our language and theirs, which makes it even harder; at least many Earth languages have similar roots.” She picked up a red pencil in addition to the blue one. “That’s why we need to make differentiating statements, such as,” she added, holding the red pencil forward, “Roter bleistift”, then, switching the pencils into opposite hands and holding the blue pencil forward, “Blauer bleistift.” She put the pencils down. “You could correctly infer that ‘Roter’ is red, and ‘Blauer’ is blue, as well as that ‘Bleistift’ must mean pencil.” She paused for a second. “You could also infer that the German language places colour names before the item of that colour. By continuing in this manner, we can build up complex language structures by teaching basic building blocks, then showing how they can be combined.”

“Like we did at school – we learned how to say simple things like ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’, and then how to string them together,” Morrow commented, nodding his understanding.

“Not quite; in your school lessons, you had someone who knew both languages teaching you. Here, we must use the graphical representations along with the spoken words and symbols to produce a full translation matrix.” She glanced at the computers once more. “Fortunately, we’ve got a rather better database to work with than the Rosetta stone. It shouldn’t take all that long, using the computer uplink that’s been created between us and them; we can always query their computers to see if we’ve got something right.” She paused, performing a mental calculation. “I’d guess around six months – which is about when the craft should enter orbit. Even then, we’ll need all the help we can get. Of course, that’s assuming we have words for most of the ideas expressed in the database.”

“It’s fortunate that they were able to comprehend our computer systems, and send us something to interpret their database,” Morrow commented. “It would’ve been much harder if we had to learn how they store and link data. I guess their computer systems are much more complicated, since they were able to learn and use simple commands fairly quickly – I didn’t even realise they were sending something executable until it arrived and started running of its own accord!”

“Yeah, we thought we’d been hacked or something,” another scientist chimed in. “Turns out they were giving us an interface between our two systems. Anything we send is translated by this… I guess you could call it an artificial intelligence… so that it’s stored in a manner that makes it easy for them to access it, then it transmits it to them. Everything they send undergoes a reverse operation and is stored in a special database on one of our file-servers.”

“It’s a wonder we kept that little gem out of the press,” Morrow grinned. “I can just see the headlines now – AAO hacked by alien visitors: is this the first in a wave of attacks?” He picked up the newspaper he had read this morning. “Instead, all we have to deal with is this refusal of many people to believe this is real. Oh, and the rioting.”

“Leave that to the politicians and police to sort out,” Garcia advised. “World contact is bound to make some people react badly – for many of these rioters, everything they hold sacred is being turned on its head. There’s nothing that says that aliens don’t exist in most religions, though, just that a given society has been Chosen as being holy.”

“Well I think a few words to that effect from President Chang wouldn’t go amiss, then.” Morrow was referring to Chang YanXin, the Chinese-born President of the United Nations, who had managed to negotiate peace between many countries on the brink of disastrous wars over his short career. “I’m surprised China isn’t trying to speak for the rest of the world, or maybe America, actually.”

“I think President Chang has been working overtime to ensure a truly global response,” Garcia replied. “It helps that he’s from China, of course. The Chinese government are guaranteed to have one of their representatives communicating with the aliens before anyone else.”

“Bet that angered the Yanks, though.”

“No, surprisingly it didn’t. President Stevens has reminded his nation on several occasions that their country is part of a global community, and that they must support the rest of the world. He’s a smart man; he realises that the USA will be able to follow its own goals without having to control the whole thing.”

“I guess, but I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop; it can’t be as simple as this, can it? I mean, I half expected certain groups to push for war, but we’ve heard nothing from them for months.” Morrow shrugged and went back to his research. “I guess we’ll just have to keep doing our jobs and hope for the best.”

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 2 June

Vrakzolfix, High Governor of all the People, could finally relax. The Rituals had been performed to specifications; the Computer-Gods would handle everything until a meaningful dialogue could be established. He had seen the first responses from the planet; they seemed to be fully in control of their outer shells, which was more than many of the People could manage without extensive training. Training which he, as a member of the ruling Vrak caste, had undergone. He did wonder at the colours the planet’s people had chosen; a kind of mottled pink, which signified a barely-contained rage, and the deep brown which suggested a wish to hide. No matter – their colours would be understood in time.

Here in his inner sanctum, Vrakzolfix could allow his shell-colour to wander with his thoughts; the authoritative oranges and peaceful blues he had mustered in the Command Centre were replaced by pensive, cautious dark greens. Pushing his body to relax, despite the bright greens of anxiety pulsing down his sides, he tried to forget for a moment that he was in charge of ensuring the success of this Contact Ritual – to forget that, should he fail in his peace efforts, the Vrakzol – the leaders of the Vrak - may be slaughtered by the priests of the Spost caste, deemed as failures. Dormancy would come, he knew, but not for a few more time units; he could go to one of the Kift and obtain medication for his insomnia, but this would make him seem weak, and may lead to his deputy, Vrakzolfutt, replacing him as High Governor.

He was grateful that this Ritual required input from the Attendants; this way, minor problems could be blamed on mistakes by his underlings. In a way, he supposed, young Vrakbeltret, who had Attended the Communication Console, bore the most responsibility; it was she who would have to keep the Computer-Gods happy, that they might allow the Ritual to be completed. The entirety of the Vrakbel, who Attended the ship and the Computer-Gods, bore much more weight; it was a wonder that she had kept her shell coloured as well as she had.

Vrakzolfix felt his shell start to turn a neutral blue as he finally managed to soothe his mind; with his body no longer nervously changing colours, he was able to drift into a comfortable sleep. In his dreams, he knew, he would be merely Fix – without the worries of being a Vrakzol, and with nothing but his own aims and plans. He would have to reclaim the position when he awoke, but that was another Cycle.

***

Many decks below Vrakzolfix’s sleeping area, the Pride of the People’s computers worked harder than they had in millennia; the planet’s computers were finally sending a stream of information in response to the linguistic database provided by the Pride, containing some minor translations; it appeared that the planet’s occupants had realised what the Pride needed. It was fortunate that the computers could not suffer from emotion; the frustration of waiting would threaten the function of the vessel. The planet’s database was by no means complete, but it would suffice for basic communications.

As the computers whirled through the tasks required to keep the ship running, the AI began to construct a translation matrix, which would be used in communications, and disseminated to the linguists aboard, so that they may use the matrix to learn the new language, in case of communications which the computers could not intercept and translate. The sensor reports of an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere and standard gravity meant that landing – and hence such communications – were likely, if the occupants followed the rules laid down for them by the Homeworld when the ship had departed.


***

Geneva, Switzerland, Earth, 7 July

The revelation that the approaching “asteroid” was, in fact, a space-worthy vessel carrying an intelligent group of interstellar visitors sent the Earth’s population into a global debate over how to handle the situation. No part of Earth was untouched by this phenomenon; web-sites sprang into existence proclaiming the visitors to be “the saviours of mankind”, “the reason Earth needs to unite” and even occasionally “Gods”. News reporters were a little more restrained, merely calling the events “astounding” and “incredible”, or perhaps “the stuff of science fiction”.

For every person extolling the virtues of the alien craft, plenty denounced it as “evil come upon the Earth”, “Judgement Day about to hit us squarely where it hurts” or “an oncoming invasion force which should be destroyed”; within just a few weeks, every country was whipped into fervour as had never before occurred. The militant camp, stating in no uncertain terms that the aliens were unwelcome and should be destroyed, clashed – often using force – with their pacifist opposition regularly; cities and towns were divided, and the world’s governments struggled to bring order to the chaos ensuing across the planet.

The UN acted in record time; the Security Council convened within a week of the arrival of the aliens’ message, and the decision was taken to put the matter to a full Special Meeting of the General Assembly. The Council also felt that it would be morally wrong to keep the meeting between UN members only, and released a general invitation to any interested non-member states. Many states refused at first, complaining that the countries of the UN would still be making decisions on their behalf; it was rapidly decided that this would, therefore, be an International Meeting of World Leaders, rather than just a UN General Assembly. The renowned President Chang would chair the meeting, but no individual country would be more important than any other. Only after this proclamation did countries begin to agree to attend; more than one representative stated that this was solely because of President Chang’s ability to run such a conference without incident.

It took almost a month to organise a meeting of all the World Leaders who wished to discuss the approaching craft. Much of that time was taken up with finding a suitable location; without the protection of the United Nations, various countries refused to send envoys, fearing that they would be killed on sight by representatives of rival states. Eventually, the steadfastly neutral Swiss government offered to host the meeting at the site of the 1949 Geneva Convention; in all, over 200 Envoys, Ambassadors and Heads of State had responded to the call for a global decision on how to treat Earth’s interstellar visitors.

The Conference Chamber at the Palais des Nations was filled to capacity; the emissaries from the many countries sat listening intently to their ear-pieces, which gave translations of the conference as it proceeded. Linguists, astronomers and social scientists filled the remainder of the hall, ready to give presentations on the craft and its occupants - the world had, upon seeing the images sent by the craft, taken to calling them Insectoids – as well as to predict how the world would react in any given situation. The special nature of this meeting meant that, in addition to the 191 member states, eleven other states (both recognised and unrecognised by the United Nations) had sent ambassadors; this group sat with the UN member states, some for the first time in their history. Observers around the world were frantic with excitement at this apparent recognition and acceptance – “an unprecedented event, to say the least,” according to one understated BBC news reporter. But then, the reporter had mused, nothing about this situation was to be considered ordinary.

President Chang had been the first speaker, and was to be the last before the nations voted. Taking the podium, he considered once more what he would say to the Heads of State gathered with him in this prestigious hall. Collecting his thoughts, he began to sum up the arguments both for and against welcoming the Insectoids, and to make a heartfelt plea for global unity in this case.

“My fellow World Leaders,” he began, slow enough that the translation teams could keep up. “We stand together at the dawn of a brave new era. Whatever our decision today, the Earth will be changed by the knowledge that we are not alone. We can choose to welcome these Insectoids with open arms, or reject them. Whilst their aims and intentions remain as mysterious as their language to us, our linguists claim that the message they sent was one of peace.” He paused, looking at the representatives of the scientific community. “Many experts have given you information over the past few days; some of them advocate allowing them to come to Earth, and others fear that by doing so, we will put Earth in danger, not just from the aliens themselves, but from what they may have brought with them. We have all seen that they are physically very different from us; microbes that do not affect them may critically harm the population of our planet. Once we can communicate properly with them, this can be explored further.

“Earth may be at risk; there is no denying that. However, this is a golden opportunity for us. The cultural exchange alone could be worth inviting these aliens to our planet; the technological exchange would be potentially priceless. If the aliens are indeed friendly to the Earth, we stand to gain a great ally,” he continued, allowing his gaze to pass over the gathered leaders, “but if they bear us ill will, there is no knowing what weapons they possess, or how they could harm us.” He then looked squarely at the representatives from the non-member states. “Earth would certainly not stand if we did not unite.

“A united Earth will be strong, whatever the result of our vote over the next week. In the best of cases, we would be able to share technology evenly; without bitter rivalries between nations, the Earth would not descend into a new World War over any new technology. If we were forced to go to war with these aliens, we would all be able to contribute to defending the planet; a disunited Earth could be divided and conquered easily. Therefore, I ask each of you to vote not only according to what you feel is best for your country, but also according to what is best for Earth. Once the decision is made, I ask that every nation represented here respect it, or we shall certainly find ourselves warring with each other. Your presence here today suggests at least that you wish to come to a consensus; I hope and pray that this will continue to be the case, even if you dislike the consensus reached.

“Remember also that this vote is just a guideline; terms of any agreement will be discussed if we allow the Insectoids to come to Earth. There will also be an opportunity in those sessions, if they happen, to forbid the Insectoids from entering your country. This vote is for Earth orbit only.” The President sat down in his seat again, mulling the options over in his mind. Consensus among over 200 states would be hard to achieve, but this process was being carried forward one step at a time. As the representatives left the room to consider their votes, discussing the points that had been made amongst themselves, he placed his papers in order and prepared to leave the room.

[Santaman]

Cool!

[RJDiogenes]

It's like reading Arthur C Clarke.

[Jim Gamma]

Nah, nowhere near as good.

I'm still not 100% sure about chapter 2, still seems a bit too fast-paced... and too many scenes in one chapter...

On the other hand, this DOES get us to the real meat of the book faster.

[RJDiogenes]

Well, no one's as good as Clarke-- he is my favorite, after all.

But it is very reminiscent in style and subject matter.

[Jim Gamma]

Chapter 3. Needed to move things forward a bit more quickly... again maybe too fast?

Wheels in Motion

Interim

The votes from the meetings of early July were counted and recounted. There had been less debate after the UN President’s summary than expected; although some non-UN states had taken exception to the call for unity, citing this as an example of UN imperialism, very few had voted against allowing the Insectoids to at least orbit the planet, for which Chang was thankful. The allegations during the week’s meetings that the Insectoids’ craft would be used for spying was quashed by the member states and denounced by the President. If nations wished to spy on one another, the American ambassador had commented, there were plenty of satellite images of the world available both online and via official channels. However, she added with a smile, why would anyone wish to spy on another country? Surely the Earth was beyond such childishness.

The few states that were against this contact agreed to abide by the decision, but they, along with some states who had voted for allowing contact, were quick to state that the Insectoids may not enter their borders. Most of these states controlled their borders vigorously in any case, so their choices did not cause much surprise. A few nations decided to impose controls for a limited time, to ensure that the Insectoids did not place them in danger inadvertently, but the negotiations over the terms of the Insectoids’ visit went smoothly; by mid-August, a treaty was prepared by the new Unified Earth Organisation – the term was still unofficial, but being used to describe the entirety of Earth’s leadership – and once it could be translated for the Insectoids’ perusal, it would be transmitted with haste.

The translation matrix was now being worked on by linguists in almost all of the Earth’s countries; English was decided as the language of contact, simply because headway had already been made with a matrix for that language. Once the matrix was complete for English, it would be a simple matter to create matrices for other Earth languages as necessary.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 25 September

Mount Stromlo was still the main base of operations for the linguistics team; global networks allowed other nations’ teams to use MSO resources from their home countries, so there had been no reason to change this. Dr. Christopher Morrow was leading astronomy teams worldwide, but also concentrating on the computer link that had been created. Without warning, he raised both eyebrows and gave a shout of surprise. “Our computers are receiving new information!”

He could barely conceal his excitement as telltales flashed up on the monitors around the room. “It looks like the Insectoids have managed to finish a translation matrix, much faster than we could; they’re downloading it to us now.” The global research had recently stalled, having hit a snag due to insufficient data. Back in June, one of the students at MSO had suggested replying with as much information on the English language as possible, anticipating the very problem that had just occurred, in the hope that the approaching craft’s computers would be more advanced, and thus better able to form a translation matrix, than Earth’s. It appeared that this gamble had been successful. “Let’s see how this works,” Morrow suggested, loading the recording of the alien’s speech.

The Insectoid appeared on the monitor, but playback did not immediately begin; instead, the translation program seemed to scan the file, then play it back after a few seconds of delay. The raspy voice of the Insectoid had been replaced by what Morrow described as a “classic early sci-fi robot voice” – all the words were spoken with the same even volume and note. Whilst the English was not perfect, it was understandable.

“Well, that’s certainly a good development!” Garcia looked away from the computer upon which she was analysing variations in the speech files the Insectoids had sent. Examining some of the new files, she nodded and muttered to herself. “It looks like these Insectoids just call themselves ‘The People’, rather than having a name to distinguish themselves from other beings,” she commented out loud. “That’s fairly common on Earth too – you’d be surprised how many cultures refer to themselves as ‘The People’ or similar, when you examine the roots of their language.”

***

Prime Minister Hartup hung up the telephone, and allowed a satisfied smile to play across his face. Now that translation was possible, the treaty could be sent to the Insectoids; whilst many countries had helped to hammer out the agreement being proposed by Earth, he was proud that Australia would be the first point of bidirectional contact between the planet and the vessel, which he had been informed was called the Pride of the People. After enjoying the feeling the good news gave him for a few seconds, he picked up the telephone once more, and placed a call to President Chang – the de facto leader of the United Earth Organisation. The President’s aide picked up the phone within two rings, then, after a few minutes, passed the Prime Minister to the President himself.

“Mr. President, we have a breakthrough,” he began quickly. “Our linguistics team has constructed a translation matrix, with the help of the Insectoids. The team’s report will be on your desk in the morning, but I thought you’d like to know now.”

“I thought we weren’t expecting to have a translation matrix until the vessel entered orbit?” President Chang was clearly surprised, but pleasantly so. “I’ll make a global address once I’ve read the report,” he continued, “but for now, please extend my congratulations to your team. Do we know how well this translation works?”

“No, but some of the files sent by the Insectoids suggest that they may have the capacity to translate voice in real-time,” Hartup answered. “We can attempt voice communication whenever we want, but it’ll be delayed by a few minutes. The craft’s only just past Mars’ orbit, and is slowing down to enter orbit of Earth, according to the latest information. We’ve already got people at work translating the treaty, so we could send that with an oral message of peace.”

“Good idea, but we’ll wait until everything is in place before we proceed.” Chang wished Hartup a good day, barely stifling a yawn – it was early morning in his home country, and he had no doubt been about to have his morning coffee.

The delay in communication with the craft had decreased gradually, and was just passing the 7 minute mark; in another two months, as the craft slowed to a relative crawl when it reached the same distance as the moon from Earth, this would be reduced sufficiently for real-time communications. The Prime Minister anticipated that many on Earth would wish to talk with the Insectoids; they would have to be prioritised. Already, he had received more petitions than he could count, from the business sector, the scientific community and often individuals with no other reason than the prestige it would afford them. If the coming weeks and months went well, all would have their chance to talk to an alien, he was certain. By the time that everyone could talk to them, though, the fervour would have died down, as the novelty wore off.

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 30 September

“We receive a message from the planet,” intoned Vrakbeltret. The communications console had not signalled any change in over one hundred cycles; she had begun to doubt whether the planet would respond before they entered orbit. “They address the People by name, and ask that our leaders review this message in its entirety.”

“Ask the Computer-Gods to show us the message, Attendant,” Vrakzolfutt answered, “and someone locate Vrakzolfix.” One of the errand-runners – Vraktekkrok, if he remembered rightly – bowed and rushed to the internal transit path to Vrakzolfix’s living area.

“The message is text only; they regret that they do not have our skill at translation of audio communications, and their language experts have not yet mastered our tongue,” Vrakbeltret answered, her shell turning an apologetic cyan. “I believe it is some kind of agreement for us to examine. Possibly, they wish to negotiate terms of access to the planet.”

“The Vrakzol will be very interested in this document,” Vrakzolfix broke in, automatically taking over control of the Ritual from Vrakzolfutt as he entered. “Send copies to all of the Vrakzol; if indeed it is such a treaty, we must examine its terms carefully,” he instructed, “so schedule a Conference of Vrakzol in three cycles, once they have had a chance to review the document.”

Nodding in response to the unspoken order, as well as the spoken one, Vrakbeltret appended a note to the planet’s message, to the effect that all recipients should read it carefully in preparation for a Vrakzol conference, at the order of the High Governor, and sent it quickly. As she turned to inform Vrakzolfix that the task was complete, she was startled to find him just a few paces behind her; recovering fast enough that her shell did not have time to change colour, she asked if there was anything else she could do.

“The Ritual is vague from this point on,” Vrakzolfix confided quietly. “Much of what follows is based upon how the planet has reacted to our presence. You have more knowledge than most of the Vrakzol of this planet, as you have heard their undirected communications for some time.” He took a breath. “I would like you to prepare a report on your impressions of the planet, based on their communications, and give it at the Conference.” Keeping his shell blue, he continued. “This request would be a difficult task for many Vrakbel, which is why it is a request and not an order; I could ask a Vrakzol to undertake this assignment, but they lack your experience. To come to a good decision, we need our most experienced Vrak, regardless of their position within that caste.”

Barely keeping her shell under control, Vrakbeltret considered both her anxiety at being asked to attend a Vrakzol meeting and her elation at how this attendance would be received among the Vrakbel if she were to succeed. This might even be a precursor to a caste promotion! Such a thing had only happened a few times in the known history of the People, and certainly not within living memory! To succeed, she knew she would have to keep herself under rigid control; clamping down on the greens that threatened to belie her trepidation, she answered, “I am honoured to write and present such a report, High Governor. I shall work on this once I have finished the required time in the Control Centre for this cycle.”

“Very well; may the Computer-Gods bless your endeavour, Vrakbeltret.” Apparently satisfied that the conversation had ended well, Vrakzolfix left the Command Centre with Vrakzolfutt beside him, turning only briefly to notice that the other occupants of the area were deferring to Vrakbeltret; apparently, his interest in her had made her peers view her as the most senior Vrakbel present. He would allow her to have this moment of glory; she had, after all, earned it by performing the Rites so much better than his fellow Vrakzol had anticipated.

----

Chapter 4...

Judgement of the People

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 3 October

The Government held its seat of power in what was conventionally thought of as the top of the ship. The Vrak’s various Secondary Castes had offices and Conference Chambers throughout the first ten decks. By far the grandest Conference Chamber was on the second deck of the Pride; with seating for the entire Vrak caste, it was used to host full Quorum Meetings, and occasionally by the Vrakzol, for administrative purposes. This was the purpose it was to be used for in the next few hours. As the Vrakzol filed into the room, mulling over the papers they had studied for the past three days, one of the People, looking decidedly nervous in all but her shell, crept in and, at the High Governor’s insistence, took a seat in the front row. Scanning through the report she would give once more, Vrakbeltret tried hard to look as though she belonged here.

As Vrakzolfix led two fellow Vrakzol to the table at the front of the room – Vrakzolfutt and Vrakzolkopp, the second and third most senior Vrakzol – the room fell silent. At precisely the allotted time, Vrakzolfix raised himself onto two legs, flashed the bright orange of supreme authority, and began the meeting. “You have all read the message sent by the Humans of the planet Earth,” he began. “We must determine whether to accept their invitation to visit their planet, or make for the fourth planet of this system, leaving the Earth in peace.

“It would be easy to alter the direction of the Pride of the People, but such a change must be accomplished within five cycles, else we must navigate around the system’s star; if we change course now, we can travel in a straight line without damage to the Vessel. However, the Ritual that will begin should we visit will be the most important Ritual the People have ever known. We will be remembered for all eternity if we make first contact with an alien species.” He paused briefly, looking about the room. “We cannot make this decision without information. You all know the proposed treaty; you know that certain areas of the planet remain forbidden to us, but we can visit other areas as we wish. The treaty does not impose any limits on our orbit, or in any way hamper the Rituals that must occur. However, we also need to know some facts about these Humans; what are their true intentions? Can we take the risk that they may be hostile? To answer these questions and more, I have invited the Communications Attendant who first detected the Humans’ messages, Vrakbeltret.”

As the High Governor sat down, Vrakbeltret approached the table. Feeling nervous enough that she had trouble speaking for a second, although she did not allow this to show in her shell, she took a moment to look around the room. Finally, as she calmed herself, she began to give her report.

“The planet we approach is inhabited by many species,” she began, “most of which are not sentient. However, upon arrival in this system, the Pride of the People detected transmissions from the planet. This has never before occurred in our history, but the Rituals are clear on how to approach such an event. I spent much of my time in Attendance of the communications console as data arrived. At first, the signals appeared to be jumbled, as a dream would seem to a conscious member of the People. The Computer-Gods were unable to interpret their language for many Cycles; we know now that this is because there are many languages on Earth. The planet is not united as we are; instead, it is divided into over two hundred nation-states, each of which is subdivided into administrative areas.”

She paused to press a button on the table; the wall behind her sprang to life, displaying an image of the southern hemisphere of Earth. Indicating a large island just south of a major continental land-mass, she continued. “This island was closest to us when we made contact. We know now that it is called Oss-Trel-Ya, and that it is part of a group of nation-states, named Yew-Enn. There are nations that do not belong to this Yew-Enn, but apparently every Earth nation was involved in the creation of this treaty. Such unity has never before happened on Earth, per the transmissions I have observed; my study into the transmissions we received before Earth was aware of our presence confirms that they are usually fragmented.” She called up a new image on the screen.

“The Humans are plagued by internal conflict. Nation-states fight over each other’s territories, and will not share as we do.” The picture was showing a news report of tanks rolling into a city. “They create large weapons of war, to kill one another. Their violence is unlike anything we have ever known.” The image changed again – this time to a view of relief efforts in an area hit by a major flood. “Consequently, they are never ready to help victims of natural disasters, such as this flood. No matter how often it happens, and how many Humans die, they do not respond fast enough to save all possible lives. The Computer-Gods have shown me records of weak transmissions they picked up over the last thousand Cycles, but dismissed as background radiation. We can now interpret these correctly, so we know that this has happened for many hundreds of their years.”

She pushed another button, and a video of the July meeting of representatives of every nation was displayed. “That information makes this Conference, and this treaty, vitally important. Nations put aside their differences, and stopped their squabbles, in order to respond with one voice to us. They made a concerted effort to at least hide their distaste for one another. A fragile global alliance now exists on Earth. Their treaty and their intentions are honest; they do not wish to harm us. In fact, they are more fearful that we may harm them. Their crewed spacecraft have not travelled further than the natural satellite of Earth, although some drone-probes, commanded by Computer-Gods, have already departed the star system. They have not developed their motion-induction systems to the same standard as the Builders developed those on this vessel. Though we know only the Rituals by which we maintain the vessel’s pleasure, the advanced technology is here.” She deactivated the screen.

“Based on their communications,” she concluded, “I see no reason why we should not land a craft on Earth and contact these Humans. They will not harm us because for the first time in their existence, they are at peace, and because they believe that we might make war on them if we do not agree to the treaty. Some nation-states attempt to convince the rest of the world to attack pre-emptively, should we reject their treaty, but this should not sway your decision today. These states do not control sufficient technology to attack on their own, and the more advanced states will not attack if we change our course to avoid Earth; they will see that we do not intend to harm them. My recommendation, therefore, is to accept the treaty.”

Relieved to have finished her report, she glanced around the room once more; none of the Vrakzol had queries, so she returned to her seat, as the Vrakzol stood to show respect for her speech. The rest of the Conference sped by; she heard the arguments both for and against acceptance in the background, her mind focusing instead on the reception her speech had garnered. It was only good manners that they had stood, displaying neutral blue shells, when she finished speaking; the startling feature of the Vrakzol’s respect was that over half of them had clasped all four upper limbs together, honouring her as though she were also Vrakzol. Clearly, her speech had impacted them a great deal.

As the Cycle reached the end of the First Sakorak, when many of the People would consume sustenance, the Conference began to come to a natural conclusion; over twenty of the Vrakzol had offered insight into their feelings on the subject, and the room’s occupants all seemed ready to vote. Finally, Vrakzolfix gave his closing comments; expecting the meeting to end, most of the Vrakzol began to store the notes they had been taking in their carrying cases. Then Vrakzolfutt surprised the meeting by declaring that he would like to add something in closed session; taking the hint, Vrakbeltret slipped out of the room unseen.

***

Vrakbeltret was summoned to Vrakzolfix’s office after her post-sustenance shift ended. The Vraktek who delivered the order did not know the reason; he had not asked, and the High Governor did not tell him. It was with great trepidation that she found herself outside a large wooden door a few minutes later – one of the grandest on the ship – pressing the stud which would light a small panel on the High Governor’s desk, announcing her presence. Trying desperately to keep her shell neutral, she waited to be called inside.

She did not have to wait long. After only ten keppaks, the door opened, and Vrakzolfix extended a lower arm to her, inviting her in. She stepped through the threshold and resisted the temptation to stare in awe at the beautiful furnishings. The desk alone, with its ornate corners and matching seats, was more fabulous than anything she had ever seen. Coupled with the decorations, paintings and mosaic floor, she could not have been faulted for spending a moment taking in her surroundings. But that wasn’t why she was here. “You asked to speak with me, High Governor?”

“The Vrakzol are most impressed with your report,” he told her. “You seem to have a knack for persuasion.”

“Thank you, High Governor,” she replied, ordering her shell to remain neutral. “That means a lot to me.”

“We have been impressed with your performance ever since we entered this star system, in fact,” he continued. “So much so, that every Vrakzol you have encountered has placed a commendation on your file.” He glanced away, to allow her a second to relax before he continued. Pulling open a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a small box. “We need a Speaker, in order to facilitate communication between us and Earth,” he commented. “If you are amenable, Vrakzolfutt suggests that we give you that position.”

“There must be Vrakzol who would be able to fill this position,” Vrakbeltret said uncertainly. “They are infinitely more qualified to lead an interspecies liaison office.”

“We believe your actions show you to be qualified for this post, and for promotion to the Vrakzol,” he answered. “But if you do not wish this, I am sure a Vrakzol will take the position,” he finished, moving the box back toward the drawer.

“I am honoured to accept, High Governor,” she answered before he could remove the tantalising glimpse of promotion from view. “How do you wish me to proceed?”

He inclined his head and closed the drawer. “Excellent; continue as you have been for now, but when we enter orbit, you will make contact with Earth’s people, and you will be the first to speak to any Human face-to-face.” He opened the box and took out a shiny silver medallion. “Congratulations, Vrakzoltret,” he said, pinning the medallion on her. “I suggest you remove the Vrakbel insignia; we would not want to confuse anyone.”

“Of course, High Governor,” she answered, doing as the High Governor suggested. “And thank you, Sire,” she finished, clasping her arms together.

Once Vrakzolfix had given her permission to leave, Vrakzoltret left the room, careful to keep her head held high and to hide her excitement. Only when she had reached the civilian decks did she allow herself to drop to six limbs, enabling her to move around more easily. She raced to the bar frequented by her fellow Vrakbel – no, not fellow Vrakbel, she reminded herself; they were no longer her peers. She longed to show off to her friends, but she knew that now she was a Vrakzol, they would no longer accept her as a friend. With sadness encroaching on her moment of joy, she made her way to the bar frequented by the Vrakzol who were now her peers. Remembering to rise to bipedal motion before she entered, she pushed the door open. As Vrakzol turned to see who was entering, they stood, welcoming her as one of them. Though she had lost one group of friends, she had been given another; of this, she was absolutely certain.

---

Next up, I think I need to write a new chapter in from scratch... RJ can probably guess why, once he sees it, but suffice to say, something necessary wasn't present early on when it should have been.

[Jim Gamma]

New chapter 5, plus chapter 6. RJ can probably glean more from this than anyone else.

***

Duty’s Reward

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 13 December

Samantha Davies stood at the school gates, waiting eagerly for the end of the day, when her daughter would come running out with her friends. It was so rare that she was able to do this; usually, she was forced by the rigours of her work to rely on close friends or paid childcare to collect little Amanda after school. Today, though, her hospital shifts had worked out perfectly. She checked her watch – almost time! As she glanced up, she caught a bright flash of sunlight reflected in an opening door – one of the classes was being released.

A few of the parents at the gates roused themselves from their chatter and started sauntering in, to be greeted by a flood of schoolchildren – somehow, each child found their parent in the ensuing chaos. Distracted by the hubbub, she failed to notice the door to Amanda’s classroom open, but was soon made aware of it when her daughter grabbed her hand.

Swooping her up into her arms, delighted by Amanda’s gleeful giggle, she grinned. “You’re getting a bit old for this,” she told her, putting her down gently. “Ready to go?” At her daughter’s affirmative nod, she gripped her hand tightly and led her to the car. “Got a little surprise for you – go on, open the door.” She indicated the rear passenger door, then walked around to the driving seat.

Amanda did as she was asked, then shrieked with pleasure. “Uncle Paul!”

“Hey, Mandy,” Paul laughed, pulling her across his lap into the seat next to him. “Nice day at school?” Amanda nodded. “What’ve you been learning? I bet you’re really smart now, aren’t you?” Another nod, as Amanda tried to snuggle up to him, despite the seatbelt she was now wearing. “You gonna talk to me, or do I have to do all the work myself?”

“She’s that age, Paul,” Samantha called from the front seat. “You won’t get a word out of her!”

“I don’t remember you ever having that trouble,” he shot back. “Besides, she said hello!”

Amanda finally realised she couldn’t get any closer to her uncle, and spoke up. “We’re learning about the aliens!”

Paul turned back to face her. “What’ve you learned so far?”

“They’re as big as us, but they have hard shells and they can change colour,” she answered. “They live on a big ship that’s about to land on Earth-“

“Land on Earth?” Samantha laughed. “I don’t think that’s very likely! They’ve probably got smaller ships inside the big one that they’ll send down.”

“But they’ll still land, Mum,” Amanda answered. “And there’s a big party planned for tomorrow – but only really important people are invited,” she pouted. “I wanna go!”

“You’d be bored, Mandy,” Samantha sighed. “We’ve been over this before – it won’t be party games, it’ll be long speeches and food you won’t like. I’m not even sure I want to go, but duty calls. You’ll have more fun at Millie’s house – and you’ll even have a sleepover.” She parked the car, and let her daughter out. “Were you given any homework today?”

“Yes,” Amanda answered, grabbing her small satchel and carefully exiting the car after her uncle. “But I want to play with Uncle Paul.”

“Homework first, then play,” Samantha instructed her, unlocking the front door. Amanda walked past her and into the sitting room; Samantha headed for the study, pursued by her brother.

Almost as soon as they were through the door, Paul caught her shoulder. “What was that about you going to the big event tomorrow?”

“Oh, the hospital is on emergency status, just in case,” she answered. “All staff are on duty or on call, with some of us at the event for rapid responses. We probably won’t be needed.”

For a few moments, Paul was silent, uncertain how to respond. On the one hand, this was the biggest event of the year, and his sister would play a key role – even if that role was to do nothing. On the other, if something went wrong, and his sister was in the responding team of medics...

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Samantha finally continued, “But it looks like you’re upset.”

“I am happy, it’s a great opportunity. I’m just worried about you.“

“Thanks, but there’s really no need. As I said, nothing’s going to happen; it’s not like I’ll be taking any kind of central role in this. I’m just a nurse.” She smiled reassuringly. “We’ll have the police, the army and the air force protecting us – from several different countries. You know how many world leaders are going to be at the event.”

“All too well,” he answered. “That’s part of the problem.” Grinning ruefully, he opened the study door and walked out. “Think I’ll go and help Mandy with her homework”.

“Or you could get dinner,” Samantha suggested. “Mandy needs to learn to do her homework on her own, not crib of her uncle.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Paul grinned, turning back to face her and snapping off a mock salute. “What am I making for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know... Mandy seems to like anything you cook.”

“Fine – I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.” He left, closing the door behind him.


***


Generation Ship ‘Pride of the People’, 13 December

Throughout the Pride, the People began to gather around the large screens that served to provide ongoing information to the vessel’s occupants. As the appointed hour approached, the hubbub of voices and movement began to die down to a murmur, and an expectant hush swept through the great ship’s many halls and corridors.

As timepieces struck a note throughout the ship, the screens flared to life. From every vantage point in the communal areas, High Governor Vrakzolfix was suddenly gazing down upon his people, greeted by humble, yet exuberant, displays of colour.

“Inhabitants of the Pride of the People,” he began after a moment, “I thank you for your welcome. As you are all aware, by now, we have entered into orbit of the planet known as Earth. The Spost inform me that the Computer-Gods are satisfied with our location. Starfall has been completed successfully.” He paused for a moment, to let his people respond – and respond they did, with eager displays of jubilation on their shells, and a chorus of voices thanking the Computer-Gods.

“Starfall is complete,” the High Governor continued after the noise had died down, “But there is much more to be done here. You have all heard the stories of previous Starfalls – of times of plenty, of feasts and of great celebrations. A few of us are old enough that we remember – just barely – the last such event. You will also all know, by now, that this is not the subject of my address today.” Another pause. “The planet Earth is inhabited, and the People have been invited to make contact.”

This was of no suprise to anyone; by now, even the weakest-eyed of the People were aware of the array of satellites orbiting the planet, and the disarray brought about by the Ritual of Contact. The People waited, as was their duty, listening for the next words from their High Governor’s mouth.

They did not have to wait for more than a few keppaks. “The Contact Ritual is scheduled to culminate tomorrow, on the island with which we first communicated. The Vrakzol have, in conjunction with the Spostzol, selected a team of representatives to meet with the humans on the planet’s surface. The team will assemble at first sakorak, whereupon a pilot will escort us to the surface, for the culmination of this Ritual.

“The Spost have asked me to extend the thanks of the Computer-Gods to every one of the People who has participated in the extended Rituals of the past few hundred Cycles.” That, Vrakzolfix couldn’t help but think, means almost the entire population of the Vessel. “It is hoped that as many of the People as possible will be able to visit the surface, but that is for the future to decide.

“For now, I ask that each of you continue to perform your duties and enact the Rituals as well as you have been. Fulfilment of today’s tasks will help us fulfil tomorrow’s. May the Computer-Gods bless all of the People.” With that, the High Governor’s image faded away, replaced by the regular news briefings. It took a few moments for the People to resume their normal daily routines; now, however, they were also filled with chatter about the coming cycle.

In one of the smaller conference chambers, Vrakzolfix gazed upon his contact team. Organised as instructed by the Contact Rituals, in accordance with Spost advice, he knew that he had the best possible individuals for the task ahead.

“You are the leaders of your respective areas of expertise on the Pride,” he reminded them. “This is why you have been Chosen, and it is why our tasks tomorrow must meet with success. I trust you have all devoted time to learn some simple human phrases; we cannot guarantee that our translations are perfect, so we may have to rely on our own skills.”

One by one, the team signalled that they had complied with the request. Satisfied, Vrakzolfix continued.

“There have been several information packets prepared for our perusal, some of which you have already seen. You must all review these packets again today, in preparation, before you rest. We do not know exactly what conditions to expect on Earth – despite our best efforts, their number system eludes us; it could be too hot, too cold, too humid or too dry for our comfort – so you must all take a full rest period. Go, now, and finish your preparations.”

The team filed out quickly, leaving Vrakzolfix with his second-in-command, Vrakzolfutt. “We, too, must make preparations,” the High Governor said. “It is rare for the Leader of the Vrakzol to depart the Vessel, but there is a Ritual that covers this eventuality. Please, come to the Control Centre.”

The Second of Vrakzol nodded his assent, and followed his First from the room. Moments later, they had boarded an internal transit capsule and were rushed to the Control Centre. They stepped out, and a Spost handed Vrakzolfix a portable terminal. Vrakzolfix read it for a moment, then moved to the Control Seat in the middle of the room, Vrakzolfutt just behind him. Once he had the attention of the Control Centre’s occupants, he began to speak.

“The Computer-Gods require that this Vessel always has a High Governor, and that the High Governor remain on the vessel,” he read. “However, They are merciful, and recognise that the High Governor may be unable to fulfil this obligation; therefore, They have provided a Ritual of Transferrence of Power. I now invoke this Ritual, and transfer my command of the Pride of the People to Vrakzolfutt, Second of Vrakzol, for the duration of my visit to Earth.”

He took a deep breath, and placed a hand on the panel next to the seat. “Computer-Gods, I ask that you recognise High Governor Vrakzolfix.” The panel lit briefly, then turned yellow. “Transfer supreme control of this Vessel to Vrakzolfutt.” He handed the portable terminal to Vrakzolfutt, and lifted his hand from the panel, which darkened.

Copying the High Governor’s actions, Vrakzolfutt responded. “Computer-Gods, I ask that you recognise Second of Vrakzol, Vrakzolfutt.” The panel went yellow again. “I accept supreme control of this Vessel.” The panel flashed once more. “I bid you a safe journey, High Governor.”

“Thank you, Vrakzolfutt,” Vrakzolfix nodded. “Treat the Pride and her People well.”

“Yes, High Governor.”



First Contact

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 14 December

Today was the day. Chang YanXin, President of the United Earth Organisation, had spent the past few weeks in conference with the Insectoid Speaker, Vrakzoltret, arranging a day, time and place for the first face-to-face contact. Canberra had been selected, having led research into the craft and its occupants for the past six months; the exact site had been a closely-guarded secret, and aircraft had been diverted around the area for the last several weeks, but once an Insectoid craft landed, thousands of people were expected to arrive; some secrets could never be kept completely.

Also present at today’s gathering would be nearly two hundred representatives – mostly Heads of State, though some Ambassadors, representing their nations to the Insectoids. Some countries had declined to send a representative, but Chang was nonetheless delighted with Earth’s continued show of unity. This, he knew, boded well for diplomatic relations, both Earth-bound and with the Insectoids. It seemed that if anyone had doubts about either alliance, they were at least willing to give the peace they now found themselves amidst a chance.

The Australian summer was working toward a scorching January, but for now, the temperatures were settled in the mid-20s; outside, the sky was a brilliant blue, the sun seemed brighter than Chang had ever known it, and the scent of the most beautiful flowers filled the air. As he left the office provided by the Australian Parliament for the duration of his stay, he reflected upon the last six months with great pride – both in himself, and in his fellow humans who had made this event possible.

Although he wished he could afford the time to bask in the sun, he had a job to do today. Arriving at his car exactly on schedule, he was pleased to see his driver already present. Nodding to her, Chang stepped into the limousine, and buckled his seatbelt for what should be a quick drive to the field chosen for the Insectoids’ landing.

Chang’s first glimpse of the field came within five minutes of leaving his office. Several large marquees had been erected at one end of the field, providing food, entertainment and a stage; an adjacent field had been set aside for parking, and the Canberra police force had blocked off the entire area to any unauthorised people. The High Governor of the craft had assured him that their auxiliary craft could launch and land vertically; a space had been cleared for them to do just that at the opposite end of the field from the pavilions.

Although no leaders or ambassadors were required to be present until the ceremony was due to begin, Chang noted several other cars as his vehicle drove into the parking area. He stepped out onto the red carpeting that had been lain between parking spaces – even in the middle of a sun-dried field, it seemed, the world’s representatives did not wish to risk muddying the bottoms of their shoes – and walked into what had become known as the Spaceport. Most of this field had been covered with wooden staging, apart from the Insectoids’ landing zone; even here, though, there were wooden paths ready to be pushed to the entrances of the craft.

In one corner of the field, a few work crews were putting the finishing touches to the stage in one of the pavilions; some distance away, Chang spotted his fellow early arrivals. They appeared to be inspecting the site, led by an eager workman – the foreman, he guessed. Deciding not to join them at this juncture, Chang continued examining the field on his own, this time in more detail. Spotting a gap behind one of the pavilions, he moved so that he could see where it went. Another field seemed to have been set up as a preparation area, and the gap, viewable only from certain angles, was clearly intended to be a pathway for the event’s behind-the-scenes staff – the cooks, caterers, engineers, construction workers and so on.

Three pavilions had already been erected, and all were accessible from the preparation field; another stood ready to be put up to completely block the pathway from view. The workers had almost finished the inside of the first pavilion, which would eventually contain refreshments – water, a buffet and enough room for the Insectoids’ food, which they had agreed to bring, in case human food was inedible for them. It was fortunate, Chang thought, that even though the Insectoids appeared to be constructed similarly to humans, Earth’s many microbes and diseases would have no more effect on them than they did on humans, and even if they did fall ill, human-designed medical techniques could be used to help them until they could return to the Pride.

The second pavillion, containing over two hundred chairs, was clearly intended to attract the most attention. At the far end of the pavilion, a stage had been set up, about half a metre off the ground, so that speeches and, later, entertainment could be provided. The third tent, slightly more robust than the others, contained several portable refresher cabins, including a few suitable for the Insectoids, built according to specifications they had provided one of the engineers. The tent had been unnecessary – the cabins were enclosed – but it was included for appearances.

When the final tent was up, it would be used by the team responsible for recording and archiving this event, which would be broadcast live to the entire globe, as well as to the Pride of the People. Although no reporters would attend the event – none had been told of its location, for security reasons – several rooms elsewhere in the city had been set aside for use by the press.

The landing site had been smoothed carefully, and a beacon had been set up to guide the Insectoids’ auxiliary craft on its final run. A large team would be ready to move the wooden gangways once the craft had landed. With two hours before the Insectoids arrived, the team was already practising. They had been selected from a worldwide competition; millions had applied, and the twenty selected represented nations in every continent.

Chang turned once again to the pavilions; the workers had finished with the refreshments tent, and had already put up the frame of the final tent. His colleagues had finished their tour, and were now discussing the event quietly at the edge of the field, trying not to intrude. As he approached, they nodded in greeting. The group opened slightly to allow him to join in the conversation.

***

The Spaceport slowly filled over the next few hours; many of the dignitaries present chose to meander around the field, chatting in groups of two or three. At exactly noon, an aide walked purposefully through the gathering to find the President of the UEO. Catching his attention at the first possible moment, she said simply, “Mr. President, you have a message.”

“Very well,” Chang answered. “In the communication and media tent, I assume?” When the aide nodded, he smiled. “Thank you,” he said simply, and walked to the tent that had still been packed when he arrived, followed by the aide. Inside the tent, the aide pressed a button on the video communications unit that had been brought in for this moment. Aware of the cameras, he smiled as the High Governor appeared on the screen. “High Governor Vrakzolfix, we are ready to receive you. Please proceed to the landing coordinates as we discussed. No civilian aircraft will be in the skies within fifty kilometres of your entry path for the duration of your stay here.” This special arrangement had been made to avoid complications while the auxiliary craft was travelling between the Pride and Canberra. He did not feel the need to add that no craft had been anywhere near the Spaceport for the last month.

“Thank you; we will arrive in five of your minutes,” the High Governor responded. “We will approach from over the waters, and land in your field, as scheduled. Vrakzolfix out,” he finished, closing the transmission.

To the aide, Chang said, “Five minutes,” and left the tent to gather his welcoming party. First and foremost, the linguist, Dr. Garcia, would be required; after this, the Prime Minister of Australia, followed by representatives from each of the major inhabited continents and subcontinents. Regrettably, there was no time to introduce all the dignitaries; they would have to be represented by their continental ambassadors, who had been elected the week before. As he located the Asian representative, his attention was taken by a black speck from the south-east. As if some magic had been cast on the field, everyone present strained their eyes for a moment to see the vessel, and, as if choreographed, sedately formed a semicircle facing the landing zone. The welcoming party stood within the semicircle in a chevron formation, with Chang at its head.

As the vessel drew closer, the group listened for noise; somehow, the craft was silent, a testament to the skills of its builders. Its similarity to a Harrier Jump Jet seemed to confirm the idea that form and function are intertwined; it had a small tail, with a curved body and wing. The cockpit was clearly at the front of the plane, and the engine seemed to have a nozzle that could be angled at the end. As it came closer, descending to less than fifty metres, it slowed to a hover over the landing zone. It was larger than a Harrier, but this did not appear to make a difference to its manoeuvrability, as the pilot turned the craft so that the side exit was facing the delegates. As the craft landed, one of the ramps was rushed forward to meet the exit, which opened as the international team stood to attention just off the ramp, forming an honour guard along the pathway.

Six Insectoids left the small craft, each with golden shells; they walked forward in pairs, then stepped to either side, extending the honour guard lines. As they placed four limbs together, two more Insectoids, though with orange shells, exited, and walked toward the chevron formed by the welcoming party. The Insectoid honour guard turned as their leader passed, spreading to form a chevron of equal width. As if by telepathy, the first six stopped, and the other two took an extra pace forward; President Chang did the same.

“I am Vrakzoltret, Speaker of the Void Transport Pride of the People,” the Insectoid who had stepped forward intoned, clasping her arms together as her shell turned turquoise. “Whilst I am on this planet, I am the Voice of the People, and am authorised to speak for the Pride. Now, I introduce our High Governor, Vrakzolfix. He will continue the introductions.” She indicated the Insectoid who had walked forward with her.

“I introduce the leader of our Healers, Kiftzolkrup,” Vrakzolfix began without preamble, arms clasped in the same way as Vrakzoltret, “and our High Priest, Spostzolrib; the pilot who flew our vessel is Vrakbelsab, and our honour guard are Vrakbelfam, Vrakbelstum and Vrakfelstap.” They stepped forward in turn as he named them, mimicking his gesture, each with a turquoise shell. “We thank you for inviting us to visit your planet.”

Chang introduced himself and the group immediately surrounding him. “I regret not being able to introduce every delegate,” he added, “but we all wear labels written in your language, with an approximation of how to pronounce our names.” He turned slightly toward the tents. “If you would follow me, we would like to welcome you properly.” The High Governor joined him, and together, they led a procession to the large central tent. “Please, join us on the platform,” he requested, climbing the stairs onto the stage.

As the delegates filed into their seats, the High Governor took a moment to look at the varying shades of shell – no, they were mammals, he reminded himself; they had bare skin of a fixed colour, and no outer shell – on display. The welcoming party sat on the seats on stage; taking this as a cue, the Insectoids followed suit, resting on the specially constructed stools around the dais, from the High Governor in the centre next to the Humans’ UEO President, to the honour guard, flanking the Human linguist and the Australian President. When the last delegate was seated, the UN President nodded to Vrakzolfix, who moved to the platform in the centre of the stage.

Concentrating once more on speaking and understanding the Human language known as English, as he knew he would have to do for the rest of this formal session, he silently thanked the Computer-Gods that Vrakzoltret and her Vekk linguists had found the time to teach him so thoroughly. If he said one thing wrong, he risked jeopardising the treaty he had signed. He could easily have allowed Vrakzoltret to give this speech, but he knew this would make him seem weak in the eyes of the People. “Today is a great day in the history of the People,” he began, allowing some pride to encroach on his neutral shell, “and it is a great honour to be a part of this contact between our two societies. We hope that this marks the start of a long and successful relationship between our species, whilst our vessel refuels. We anticipate that our vessel will require the use of your star’s light to refuel for seventy-eight of your years; in that time, we are honoured and gratified that Earth’s leaders have offered us space in Earth’s orbit. To all of Earth’s citizens, I say now, thank you for this opportunity to learn from you what it is to meet a new culture. This moment is recorded for posterity both here on Earth, and on the Pride of the People.”

He paused, looking at the faces of the delegates. Hard as it was to judge Human emotional states, he did not think he had upset them. “We have all put a great deal of trust in each other today, and for the past six months. Earth was split into factions; now, I stand humbled before a united planet. My people took the chance that this unity was not a prelude to war; we realise that often, a common enemy will unite a people more than a common friend. We are not your enemy, but we are pleased to be at least part of the reason for your unity.” He moved back to his stool, and was greeted by the loudest cacophony of noise he had ever heard. If not for his iron grip, his shell would have turned deepest brown for a split second, before he realised that this was what Vrakzoltret had referred to as “applause” – a noise made by slapping one’s upper limbs together repeatedly, in order to show praise or admiration.

“Thank you for your kind words, High Governor,” the UN President said, standing up as the applause died down. “This is indeed a momentous occasion for both our peoples. As the elected representative of Earth, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to our solar system, our planet and to this country. Our Earth has many cultures; some are more peaceful than others. We stand united now, to bid you greetings from humans everywhere,” he continued, “and to wish you a peaceful stay in our system, for however long you wish to remain.” He looked around the room. “The delegates here today represent our Earth’s nations and regions. The geography of Earth is as diverse as its cultures; we hope that you will take the time to experience some of what we have to offer.” He looked warmly at the two linguists. “Thanks to teams of translators on both sides, we are able to comprehend one another. Through this comprehension, it is my hope that we will achieve true cross-cultural understanding.”

As he said this, he could have sworn that he saw Vrakzoltret’s shell turn purple for a split second, but it became blue once more almost immediately. Whilst he knew that the Insectoids could change shell colour – he had warned the delegates not to be worried by this – he was not aware of any meaning in these changes. Resolving to ask Vrakzolfix about this later, he continued: “As your linguists have taught you some of our language, High Governor, our linguist has taught me a few phrases in yours.” Switching to the Insectoid language, which was almost impossible for him to pronounce, he continued: “We are honoured by your arrival. It is our hope that you enjoy your stay here.” With his throat now aching slightly from attempting the guttural clicks that comprised the strange language, he returned to his seat; he noticed that all of the Insectoids had turned purple, as he received applause from his audience. He would definitely ask Vrakzolfix about that.

As other speakers stood at the podium and spoke, he noticed that most of the Insectoids held a small device in an upper hand. Their voices seemed to come from the device, rather than their mouths or throats; paying much closer attention, he could hear the clicks and snarls of their language just below the English words. The device was clearly a translator, though it seemed to be a fraction of a second out of phase with the original words. The technology aboard their craft could advance Earth a great deal, if the Insectoids could be persuaded to trade.

Once the speeches had finished, Chang took the podium one last time. “With many thanks once again, we would like to invite you to share some refreshments with us in another tent. High Governor, if you would accompany me?” Descending from the platform, Chang and High Governor left the tent together, followed by the welcoming party and Insectoid guests; once they had left, the marquee emptied quickly, as delegates headed for the refreshment tent. Inside, Chang was gratified to see, the caterers had laid out a spread of both human and Insectoid food, presumably unloaded from the Insectoid craft after the High Governor’s party had disembarked. When he and the High Governor had filled their plates, they left the tent to enjoy the afternoon sunshine.

“You speak our language well,” Vrakzolfix commented. “If it gives you as much trouble as yours tends to give us, you should know that your pronunciation was excellent.”

“Thank you, High Governor. I noticed some of your party carried black devices – translators? You have one now, but did not use one earlier,” Chang commented.

“Indeed; I declined, because I did not wish to dishonour the people of Earth by failure to make an effort,” Vrakzolfix answered. “My staff did not have time to learn your language properly, except for the linguists, led by Vrakzoltret, so it was necessary for them to carry translators.”

“We would not have been dishonoured, High Governor,” Chang insisted. “Earth is filled with many cultures, and an equal number of languages and dialects. Very few of the humans here today speak English as a native language. It is used internationally for many tasks, which made it the ideal language for our attempts at communication. In international human governments, we have translators behind the scenes who provide translations in a delegate’s native language.”

“This is a most excellent idea,” Vrakzolfix answered. “We do not need translators except when we must read the Ancient Rituals and Texts. Some of our linguists had to translate the Alien Contact Ritual about one half of Earth’s solar orbit ago,” he commented. “Now, we have asked them to learn a whole new language. They performed admirably. Vrakzoltret has made a particularly impressive effort, and indeed still is.” Sure enough, as they passed the Insectoid linguist, she was conversing with Dr. Garcia without the aid of a translation unit. “She has worked hard since we detected communications from Earth; hard enough to earn a caste-promotion from Vrakbel. I believe you would call that an Attendant,” he added, again straining to make the sounds of the English word.

“We have many citizens who would love to talk to members of your species; you are more than welcome to visit the areas specified in our treaty whenever you like,” Chang invited. “Our nations have many airports, where I’m certain one of your auxiliary craft could land,” he continued, motioning to the Insectoid vessel. “You would have to be processed through the airport, so that the nation knows of your presence, of course; this is standard procedure for humans as well.”

“Of course – that does not pose a problem. Perhaps we can also use our craft to allow trips to our vessel for humans,” Vrakzolfix offered. “We shall organise that over the next few weeks, perhaps.”

Any reply Chang was about to make was cut off as one of the Insectoids rushed headlong out of the refreshment tent, with a bright crimson shell, making what sounded very much like a choking sound. The Insectoid – Vrakbelfam, if Chang remembered – then collapsed on the ground, her body shaking violently.

[Jim Gamma]

Now that's out the way I have a question for people...

The Insectoids' speech: Is it too obscure? I've tried to avoid using "-ing" endings to verbs, and make them speak religiously, but I did kind of feel when writing it that it didn't really mesh very well.

In many sci-fi settings you do get aliens that speak oddly, but that can also make them difficult to understand. So can I get some opinions on this?

[RJDiogenes]

It's a challenge to create something that's alien and exotic, while not being distracting or opaque. And if the dialogue is being translated, it can't be too far away from normal. I haven't had a chance to read these chapters in depth again, but I don't recall ever having any trouble with the alien dialogue the first time.

[Jim Gamma]

Next chapters. I have changed the first considerably from when Rick saw it.

Five By Five

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 14 December

“Move aside!” The shout was loud enough to draw attention from everyone in the crowd. Kiftzolkrup rushed forward on six legs, followed closely by a human assistant, and proceeded to examine Vrakbelfam. The Healer then opened Vrakbelfam’s mouth and placed an arm under her head; another arm went below the abdomen, and then he squeezed. A second later, Vrakbelfam’s mouth exuded a dark substance. Spostzolrib and the human nurse helped Kiftzolkrup to carry the patient to the ship, and two caterers rushed over to clear up the mess.

“It appears you were right to ask us to bring our own food,” Vrakzolfix commented. “We need to test any Earth foods carefully before ingesting them. I did warn my surface-group not to consume human food yet, but it appears that young Vrakbelfam’s curiosity got the better of her.” His shell turned dark green again, as he continued, “I apologise sincerely for this incident; please do not look on my people as foolish for this.”

“It is I who should apologise, High Governor,” Chang answered. “One of your people has been made unwell, and we should have put measures in place,” he began, but Vrakzolfix cut him off.

“No, neither of us was at fault; we did all we could to avoid problems. Vrakbelfam will be fine, after a short rest under the care of our Healer,” he insisted. “You should also test our foods for compatibility; we will provide a sample for your Researchers.”

“The food of Earth is quite varied, but we shall endeavour to provide dishes from as many nations as possible, so you can check what is safe to eat,” Chang answered, before changing the subject. “Your ability to change shell colour is quite astounding.”

“To us, your inability to change colour causes confusion at best, and frustration at worst. Our shells display how our reaction is to be understood; it is difficult for us to come here, where your skins are a fixed shade, and understand how you address us from just your voice and your body’s actions.” Rubbing his lower limbs together – the equivalent of a laugh or smile, Chang guessed – he continued, “Of course, some of us can control our shells, though it takes great concentration.”

“It is the same with humans; some of us find ways of modifying our behaviour until only a computer can detect the subtle differences, to give the impression that we feel one thing, when we don’t.” He smiled back at Vrakzolfix. “We can’t hide everything, though.”

“There are subtle hints,” the High Governor admitted. “Our concentration when we hold our shell would be obvious to any of the People.” Seeing his companion’s eyebrow rise for a split second – a sign of inquiry that he had been told to watch out for – he clarified, “To hold one’s shell means to keep it a neutral or subservient colour, as with the sky and the plants on our Homeworld – and on Earth, it would seem.”

“I thought you no longer had any formal records of your Homeworld?” Both Chang’s eyebrows rose at this statement. “Vrakzoltret told me a few weeks ago that you were wanderers among the stars. Does this knowledge come from stories, much as we humans tell tales of our own past, as well as keep formal records?”

“Yes, in part. But there is artwork,” Vrakzolfix answered. “Beautiful pictures of the Homeworld’s sun, rising or setting above endless green landscape. The tales say that the Homeworld was destroyed by fire that killed even those who did not stand close to it, but... I believe that this is just fable.”

“There is often truth hidden in human fables; if not literal, then metaphorical. One of our great philosophers, Aesop, wrote a collection of over 600 fables; these are still read for their meaningful morals today.”

“Perhaps you could provide me with a copy next time I visit?”

“I would be happy to give your community a copy of many interesting pieces of Earth literature,” Chang promised. “There are a great many genres in our literature. You might enjoy a great deal of it.”

“I am certain I will. Thank you for this discussion; I must not use up all of your time, however; you will no doubt wish to speak to others here.”

“As will you, I’m sure.” Smiling, Chang took his leave of the Insectoid High Governor.

***

Vrakzolfix enjoyed the afternoon immensely; the evening was even better. The entertainment consisted of some Earth poetry, as well as displays of dancing and acting from different areas of the world. As the sun began to set, Vrakzolfix and Chang stood and approached the stage.

“Thank you, on behalf of all my people, for this marvellous Cycle,” Vrakzolfix began, once both he and Chang were standing by the podium. “We have enjoyed this chance to learn more about your beautiful planet and cultures; I would especially like to thank you for the entertainment we have just witnessed. In the spirit of this cross-cultural communication, I am pleased to announce that we have agreed to welcome a research team from Earth to our vessel, in order that they – and you – may learn more about us.” He paused, and observed the attendees’ reactions, which ranged from surprise to applause. “It is our hope that this will be the start of a bounteous relationship between our species.”

Chang stepped forward, taking over from the High Governor. “Thank you, on behalf of everyone involved in today’s event, for joining us. We are delighted that you have enjoyed this event; we certainly enjoyed hosting it.” He glanced at his notes before continuing. “In the spirit of friendship and co-operation, Earth is happy to accept your invitation to send a team of researchers to your vessel; in return, we are delighted to welcome a research team from you.” Pausing for a second, he glanced over to the cameras. This moment had been well-prepared and top secret for some weeks. Only a handful of Earth’s leadership knew what was to come.

“I can now announce to Earth and to the Pride that, as a result of weeks of planning, a team of our scientists are already prepared to embark for the Pride of the People, as soon as you are ready for them.” He let that sink in for a moment. “I would like to introduce Dr. Paola Garcia, one of our most eminent linguists; Dr. Christopher Morrow, a much-respected astronomer and physicist; Sergeant Edward Phelps, of Australia’s police force; Dr. Sanjay Kothari, representing the medical profession; and Ambassador Sarah Maris, representing our diplomatic profession.” The five walked up one side of the stage, and stood to the right, and a little behind, Chang.

Clasping his four upper limbs together, Vrakzolfix responded. “I, too, wish to introduce our research team to Earth. You already know Vrakzoltret, who shall serve as our diplomatic liaison; Kiftzolkrup, our Healer; and Vrakbelstum, who represents our law enforcers. I also introduce our Star-Seer, Kelkbelkrad, and one of our linguists, Vekkbeltann.” The Insectoids moved to their High Governor’s left, mirroring their human counterparts’ positions and order. “With your permission, our diplomatic and cultural exchange can begin tomorrow, after both teams have had a chance to finish preparing for transit, Mr. President,” he continued once the applause died down. “Our vessel will return to bring your research team back to the Pride of the People, but we must now take our leave of you.”

Chang smiled as he replied, “Then we look forward to tomorrow’s exchange.” Watching the Insectoid leader take his team back to their craft, he reflected on the day’s events. Tomorrow should prove, he thought, to be even more interesting.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 15 December

The Insectoid craft returned on schedule the following day, and Vrakzolfix led his team of five into the field, which was still set up from the previous day’s festivities. The humans had already congregated, though not in as many numbers as the previous day; he recognised the UN President, the Australian Prime Minister and the human researchers, whose faces he had spent much of the previous evening committing to memory, so that he could reliably address them by name. Stepping forward and offering his hand in the unfamiliar Earth custom, he greeted Chang. “We stand ready to accept your researchers, and our team members are eager to begin their own studies.” Turning to the Insectoid research team, he added quietly, “Enjoy your time here. I will expect a report in the near future.”

“It is our honour and pleasure to reciprocate in this cultural exchange, High Governor,” Chang replied. “Our team reports that they are as eager as your researchers to begin, and we have prepared accommodations which we hope will be suitable for your people.” He nodded to Dr. Garcia, who led the human researchers to join Vrakzolfix; at the same time, the Insectoid team walked over to the humans. Watching the door close behind the departing group, he wished for a moment that he could have visited the great vessel himself.

***

As she watched her people take the human researchers into the sky, Vrakzoltret could not prevent a hint of green from appearing on her shell. She knew that even though she could contact the Pride if anything went wrong, they would still require time to come down to the planet and retrieve them. Turning to her hosts, she waited for the President to speak to her. Already, she could see that the large tents were being dismantled and packed away.

“I will leave you in the hands of this country’s Prime Minister, Bradley Hartup,” Chang told her, seeing her expectant look. “I must travel back to my home country tonight, but I’m sure that you are in excellent hands. Do not hesitate to ask any questions you may have.” With that, he nodded to the aide beside him and walked through a gap in the hedges that had, until now, been hidden; clearly, his transport lay beyond it.

“I’m not certain how well you will be able to use our vehicles,” Prime Minister Hartup commented, “but we have attempted to install seats that you can use in the car we are travelling in tonight.” Leading the way through the bushes, he opened the door of a long, dark vehicle, clearly modified for the occasion – a “stretch limousine” according to Hartup. “You should be able to strap yourselves in, facing the front,” he told them. “We’ll try not to shake you about, but some torque is inevitable in a ground vehicle.”

“Do not worry; if we get thrown out of our seats, our shells will protect us,” Vrakzoltret answered, attempting to approximate the laugh she had heard many times over the last few months. “From our observations as we entered your airspace, we will not move fast enough to cause us to be thrown about anyway.” Seeing his confused look, she added, “Six limbs are better than two if we need to keep ourselves anchored. That is why Kiftzolkrup dropped to six legs yesterday when his services were required – better traction.” She quickly buckled herself in, and her charges did likewise. Their human host took the sixth unoccupied seat in the rear of the limousine, which had not been adjusted for the Insectoids.

Hartup noticed that she was still speaking without the translator as the car left the parking area. The rest of the group, including Vekkbeltann, had elected to use the devices. “The High Governor did well in that first speech,” he mentioned. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have time to learn English.”

“Our people have two languages – the first, which all of us learn, and the Language of the Rituals, which very few of us study in detail,” Vekkbeltann told him. “Our linguists and priests work together to ensure that the Rituals are understood and followed, but for most of the People, it is difficult to learn a new language. I believe the High Governor wanted to… I believe the phrase is ‘make a good impression.’” Hartup nodded, so she continued. “English is harder for us than the Language of the Rituals, because there are so many unusual sounds to remember, and it is much more complex. For example, you will notice that we do not use contractions or the progressive tense.”

“I’m ashamed to admit, I have no idea what a ‘progressive tense’ is,” Hartup blushed. “Not every native speaker is an expert on their own language.”

“As I must constantly remind her,” Vrakzoltret commented. “I am not a trained linguist, and have had to learn terms such as this ‘progressive tense’ – a verb form that denotes an ongoing event – in a short time. I would think, Vekkbeltann, that you would realise the need to avoid jargon by now.”

“Well, I think it’s an admirable attempt, and you’ve been very successful,” Hartup broke in before the linguist could respond. “Anyway, tomorrow, we’ll leave you to settle into your accommodations during the morning; feel free to take a look around the grounds, too. There will be some guards present to keep you secure, but they’ll try to let you have plenty of space. I know you have much to accomplish in the rest of your time here, so make the most of it. Some information about the area will be available in your accommodation. Speaking of which, we’re just about there.”

As the limousine pulled into a large driveway, the conversation died down. Once the car was parked, the driver opened the door, allowing everyone to exit. The Insectoids spent a few seconds examining the front of the building they had arrived at. It was two stories tall, with what looked like fabric blinds – “curtains”, they were told later – on the ‘windows’, or Observation Stations, for privacy. The building seemed to have been made from blocks of stone, with simple glass for the windows, which were edged with wooden ledges. The main entry was set back slightly, underneath a small shelter; one of the aides produced a device which he pressed into a slot on the door and turned, before pushing the door open and handing the device to Vrakzoltret.

The inside was as strange and beautiful as the outside. A short corridor along the centre of the house led to a stairwell; on either side of the corridor were doors to internal rooms, which did not require a key to access. The aide explained that the rooms on the left were the kitchen, at the rear of the building, and the dining room, where food could be eaten. On the right, at the front of the building, was what Vrakzoltret thought was a research area, but turned out to be a “lounge”, or communal residence area, with a television and radio, as well as a Computer-God connected to the humans’ global data network. The Prime Minister promised to send someone to show them how to use the technology as soon as possible. The other door on the right led to a small chamber, from which the occupant could turn right and enter the “bathroom” – the humans’ equivalent of a Cleanliness Area, which had been converted for Insectoid use; alternatively, on the left was one of the five ‘bedrooms’, or Dormancy Chambers.

The other four bedrooms and another bathroom were at the top of the stairs. Each bedroom had been prepared to simulate their dormancy areas on the Pride of the People; a cushioned area was available where they could lie down to sleep, with ample space to find an appropriate protective posture. A place was provided for their personal items and clothes; whilst their chitin covered their soft internal organs adequately on the Pride, they had brought simple covers to attach to their shells – one of a few human ideas they were adopting in order to experience what it was to be from Earth.

Once their tour was over, and the items they had brought from the Pride of the People were stored, the Insectoids bade the humans goodbye. After reassuring the Prime Minister that they would be fine here until their meeting the next afternoon, and making plans to familiarise themselves with the area after a rest period, they began the Pre-Dormancy Rituals.



The Pride of the People

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 15 December

The five humans released themselves from their harnesses as the auxiliary craft approached the Insectoids’ vessel, having left Earth’s atmosphere moments before. Surprisingly, they still felt the pull of gravity, though not quite as strongly as on Earth. The only response they could obtain when they asked how things worked, however, was a confused “It just works that way,” or “The Computer-Gods control that.” At first, Garcia was certain that the latter was a misinterpretation; later, she realised that the Insectoids really did worship their computers as gods.

The Pride of the People resembled a large asteroid with engines and other manufactured items protruding from its surface, including a massive solar array, so big that Morrow refused to estimate, and the Insectoids didn’t know, how much energy it could convert each second. The engines looked like ovoid pods jutting from the surface of the asteroid at strategic locations; as the team flew close to one, they noticed that there was a system for directing the thrust, so that the craft could turn.

Their pilot was flying within just a few metres of the ship’s surface. As he adjusted the landing craft’s heading minutely, he issued a series of clicks – “Buckle up” or similar, Garcia translated, strapping herself in once more. A second later, one of the sides of the Pride seemed to open outward, giving the craft a runway to land upon. From this, Sergeant Phelps was able to work out that the engines they had just passed were at the rear; it made strategic sense to land auxiliary craft this way; since both craft would be moving in the same direction, it was easier to cope with the thrust differential.

As the craft touched down within the runway-tunnel and rolled to a stop, presumably on six wheels, the humans gazed in awe, first at the length of the tunnel, and then at the size of the hangar bay they found themselves in. There must have been at least fifty vessels in the bay, all identical to this one. They were strangely unsurprised when Vrakzolfix told them that there was a bay like this on each side of the ship, plus another eight bays around this deck, each containing sixty craft that would hold twelve people. There were also bays controlled by the Computer-Gods, which were used so that the ship could repair itself and gather resources from the solar system if necessary; on this occasion, it wasn’t, but historical accounts showed pilots launching from the reconnaissance bay and having to dive to avoid being hit by another craft entering one of the decks above.

Vrakzolfix led the humans out of the bay, into a corridor that ran the length of the ship. At strategic points along the corridor – usually as near to bay entrances as possible – were small alcoves; Vrakzolfix led them into one now. Pressing a button, he turned to his charges, who each held translation devices. “This is our internal transit system. Inside, you will find an interactive map of the ship. First, you select the required level; then, a list is given of possible destinations on that level.” Leading the way into the small lift-analogue that had just appeared, he indicated the screen on the back wall. “For instance, to reach the control centre, I press the screen to show me the top 50 decks, then select Deck 1.” As he did this, the screen changed from showing the centre of the ship (Decks 51-100) to the top of the ship, and then to a two-dimensional map of the top deck. “Then I select the symbol which shows the control centre,” he finished, doing so.

The lift started moving instantly and without warning; the Insectoids kept their legs under them, but the humans had to grab some of the hand-grips on the wall. Vrakzolfix continued his introduction to the transit system, explaining that several sections of the ship were automated, and probably had not been accessed since the ship was built. “These include decks 76 to 89 and everything after deck 111. A console will be available in your rooms, which allows you to access information about every accessible deck, but my people will be happy to help you find your way if you ask – please remember to use your translators, though, as very few of the People understand your language.”

Upon arrival at the control centre, the High Governor ushered the humans forward. “This is what you would call the ‘nerve-centre’ of the vessel whilst we are inside a solar system. When we are in interstellar transit, the Computer-Gods handle a great deal; but they require the assistance of the People when we make Starfall. We follow the Ancient Rituals laid out for us by our ancestors; they instruct us in almost every aspect of proper control of the Pride of the People.” The screen showed an image of the Earth; Australia and New Zealand were in focus at the moment, and the Insectoids at the consoles around the room were intent on their work, until they were called upon to explain their role in the Rituals to their human guests.

“Sounds like the bridge of a naval craft,” Maris commented. “You have the central chair, from where the vessel’s commander issues orders; in front of him, you have the helm and navigation stations; behind him are the internal operations and RADAR consoles. On one side, we have the communications console; we also have various other nonessential consoles around the back of the ship.”

“I didn’t realise you were into sea-ships, Ambassador,” Kothari noted.

“I’ve seen a few in my time in the diplomatic corps, Doctor,” Maris answered. “Enough to recognise a Bridge when I see one, anyway.”

“We must continue to the rest of the ship – or at least some of it,” Vrakzolfix broke in, returning from a brief conversation with another Insectoid, who had been introduced as Vrakzolkopp. “A rest period approaches, and you need to see our residential and commercial sectors.” He led the team into the lift; the Insectoids who had travelled up with them remained in the Command Centre, and the doors closed. The lift was slower this time – obviously, the Governor had requested that the lifts be slowed for the humans’ comfort. When the doors reopened, two Insectoids boarded the lift as Vrakzolfix and the human team exited.

“The commercial centre is the hub of many of the People’s lives,” commented the High Governor. “Many of them work here; others come here to consume food and drink, or to socialise with their peers. This area is split into several sections. Currently, we are in the Culinary Zone; nearby, you will find the Market and shops where one can buy food and cookery utensils for use in one’s accommodations. We have many other Zones on the decks above; a complete list is posted by each Transit Alcove.” As they walked along the “street”, they were met by strange scents – Insectoid kitchens, the team assumed.

“Within most of the zones,” Vrakzolfix continued at length, “the People mix freely; however, in this zone, there are bars and restaurants which tend to attract only those of a given caste and rank. This is because the Rituals state that we must comport ourselves properly at all times when with members of other castes and ranks; if we mingle outside of our duties on the Vessel, some of us find it hard to relax. This is only the case for a few of us; please, do not think that we are rigidly controlled by our caste structure.” He led them down a side-street. “We approach the Accommodations Centre. A Transit Cubicle could have taken you straight here, but I wanted to show you where we relax when the Computer-Gods do not require us.” The humans noticed that the colour of the floor had changed, presumably indicating a new area.

“All accommodations are at the front of the ship; they take up twenty decks, and we have nearly one thousand million individuals aboard,” Vrakzolfix told them. “Your accommodation is on Deck 35, Section Orange, Corridor 5. There are twelve cabins on each Corridor; you will occupy Cabins 8 to 12. Cabins 1 to 7 are taken by myself and some of my colleagues, when they are aboard; three of them are on Earth, but Spostzolrib, our Priest, is in Cabin 2.”

The High Governor pressed a button by the side of Cabin 8 – the bottom of two – followed by a small screen, just wide enough for a human or Insectoid finger. “Dr. Garcia, if you would touch the panel, the Computer-Gods will learn who you are, so you can access these quarters.” She did so. “You can now enter when you press the top button, then place your finger on the screen to identify yourself. If anyone else tries to enter in this manner, they will be rejected, unless you have set them to be accepted as I just did.” Pressing the bottom button once more, he touched the screen twice. “I have deactivated my access to this cabin, except in emergencies; a full information pack has been provided inside, on your console.” He went through the same sequence, though without the full explanation, for the other four. Finally, he returned to Cabin 1. “May the Computer-Gods watch over you this dormancy period,” he said, unlocking his own room.

The team wished their host well, and entered their rooms. Each room was a square with about five metres to a side; they were sectioned into three areas, all separated by interior walls a few centimetres thick. Like the hull of the spacecraft, the walls appeared to be composed of rock. In each room, a desk had been provided along with a stool clearly built for Insectoid use, although by turning the stool around, the humans were able to sit comfortably at the desk to use the console that had been provided for them.

The second section – a two-metre by five-metre stretch – was assigned as the sleeping area. Maris’ first impression as she entered was of a comfortable study bedroom from her days as a student living in-hall. The bed the Insectoids had constructed was long enough, and certainly supported her weight in all the right places, but it reminded her of what she and her fellow students had jokingly called “Prison-cell beds” – hard frames, sturdy plastic mattress, one thin pillow and a minimum of thin covering. But then, the room was climate controlled; she would not require more than a thin sheet. The bed was across one of the two-metre walls, with shelves and a walk-in clothing storage area – clearly purpose-built for the human occupant – filling the remainder of the space.

The final section, a three-metre by two-metre length across the room, adjacent to the walk-in closet, if Maris judged correctly, was given over to grooming. The Insectoids had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to make this area human-friendly; a washbasin sat about one metre off the ground, slightly lower than Maris guessed the Insectoids needed. A water nozzle, curtain and a square of lowered flooring provided enough room for a shower, and the remainder of the facilities had clearly been adjusted so that humans could access them easily. Eager to get some rest, Maris unpacked her belongings – which had been removed from the landing craft and brought here for her – and took a brief shower before heading for bed. The computer console’s information could wait until morning.

***

Checking her watch, Garcia saw that she had over ten hours before her research team would meet to discuss their first assignments. As she got ready for bed, she activated her room’s computer console, wondering briefly whether she would have to translate Insectoid writing to understand the information the team had been given. As she watched, the screen showed a logo – that of the People, she guessed – and then some Insectoid lettering scrolled past, too fast for her to keep up with. This quickly disappeared and was replaced by a graphical user interface much like the one she had seen in the lift. Looking closer, she noticed that the Insectoids had translated the system into English. This, she thought, would be very helpful as she tried to understand the unfamiliar system – though she suspected Dr. Morrow could have used this system without any translation. It made sense, she supposed, for the terminal to be simple to use; if the Insectoids worshipped computers as gods, they would most likely not feel inclined to understand the workings of the system too well.

The screen seemed to be a menu, with several different options. The first, “Directions”, was clearly intended to help the user to navigate the vessel’s corridors. The second was a little more confusing; the computer had translated this as “Information”, but did not specify what kind of information. The next option, “System Usage”, seemed to be the obvious place to begin, so she reached out to touch it.

An information screen appeared, informing Garcia that this was, as she had guessed, the Pride of the People Information Terminal System; as such, it claimed, the main menu could be used to access many functions. Firstly, and most importantly, the system was to be used for the completion of the day’s tasks, whether moving around the ship, recording a diary or performing work. Secondly, the terminal could be used to communicate with others, if the user knew their location within the ship. Finally, in the event of an emergency, the terminal would give her instructions on how to proceed.

There followed a long list of instructions on how to perform each function. When she finished reading this page, the screen told her, she would still be able to access this screen by selecting “System Usage” from the main menu. Navigating back to the menu, she selected the second option, to find out what information would be provided. This time, the menu grew to more than one screen, so the computer also displayed inter-page movement buttons.

This screen seemed to be a general purpose research menu; she could find information on community events, different sectors of the vessel, what looked like an address book, the history and knowledge of the People, and several means of entertainment. She briefly flicked through the options available, making mental notes to examine each one later in more detail, before closing down the terminal and going to bed.

***

Vrakzolfix once again lay awake in his sleeping chambers, thinking over the events of the last two days. The humans had been extremely polite, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was running too smoothly. Somehow, something was going to go wrong; something that he would be unable to stop. There had been nothing overt – just a niggling worry.

His team on Earth had reported in before they began their dormancy period; nothing was amiss, but something was definitely odd. Earth had seemed strangely familiar somehow, but that wasn’t what made him feel as he did. Unable to put his finger on it immediately, he tried to forget it; after a few hours, he drifted into a restless sleep.

***

Ancient systems continued to operate within the Pride of the People. They kept the People and their mammalian guests alive; they responded to instructions and requests; they kept the Pride running. But somewhere, perhaps on Earth, perhaps on the ship, a subroutine shifted imperceptibly. It expanded, ready to fulfil its destiny.

***

The first overt sign that something was amiss came when one of the consoles in the Control Centre sparked. Had its occupant not been quick to pull backward from it, the electrical discharge would have been strong enough to kill them. More Insectoids rushed to their comrade’s aid, before their own consoles suddenly began sending plumes of acrid smoke into the air. Within minutes, the Control Centre was useless; smoke poured from every console, attacking the breathing system of everyone in the room. Struggling for breath, keeping to six legs, the Shift Governor – an elderly Vrakbel – ordered an evacuation of the room.

[Jim Gamma]

Next bit...

Terra Australis

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 16 December

Kelkbelkrad was the first of her research team to arrive in the communal area of the converted residence. After preparing a healthy morning meal, using the stores they had brought along, she perched on a stool and, after a quick read-through of the instructions they had been given, activated the small black box in the corner, known as a ‘Television’, with the remote control.

The screen blinked to life, showing what appeared to be two mammals – one feline, one canine – chasing each other about. As the feline ducked around a corner, the canine stopped suddenly, accompanied by a loud screech, turned and rushed around the same corner, only to smash its head into a closing door. Stars spun around the canine’s head for a moment, and the picture changed to the feline, who opened the door and zipped past the canine, with white lines trailing it.

The next shot showed the canine ahead of the feline, painting a tunnel on a cliff. The feline zoomed into the just-painted tunnel without encountering the cliff just as the canine hid; the canine saw this, tried to follow and slammed into the barrier it knew was present.

“I believe that is called a cartoon,” Vekkbeltann commented as she entered the room, followed by Kiftzolkrup and Vrakbelstum. “An animated depiction of a story created for entertainment. In this case, the aim is simply to make humans laugh because the predator is foiled by the prey multiple times.” She squatted on the stool next to Kelkbelkrad. “We already know of many other types of cartoon; some are much better depictions than this, but most are designed for humour.”

“It would seem that Earth humour is somewhat similar to our own, in that unusual or improbable circumstances are almost mandatory,” Kelkbelkrad commented. “I am not sure I like the idea of laughter at injuries to creatures that follow their nature, though.”

“It is not actually real,” Vekkbeltann answered. “The whole point, as far as I can work out, is that this would never happen in real life.” The creatures were replaced by a display of words and music for a few keppaks; shortly thereafter, two humans appeared on screen. “Now the programme is over, these humans will introduce the next one.”

“They cannot just use their Computer-Gods to access all this? Whenever something happens on the Pride, the People can access it at any time.”

“No; this is a time-dependent media system. You can record transmissions for later playback, but the archives are not normally available to the general public.” Vekkbeltann watched the screen for a moment. “The one exception appears to be with real information. Many programmes advertise something known as a ‘web site’, on which the humans can find further information about the programmes and the events they depict.”

Kelkbelkrad thought this over for a moment, before submitting to her confusion, and asked, “What do arachnid homes have to do with television?”

“I am not sure,” admitted Vekkbeltann. “We think that the web they speak of is a network of Computer-Gods which resembles a web in that the computers form nodes connected by wire threads.” She pondered for a second. “I like the theory; humans seem to use a great many metaphors.”

“Yes… that gave our Computer-Gods quite a few problems,” Vrakzoltret agreed, entering the room. “The People do not use so many contractions and colloquialisms, or, if we do, we have one phrase to express the idea.” The rest of the team stood on two legs as she entered. “I will research this more, but for now, we should prepare for our meeting with the Prime Minister of this nation. Prepare lists of what you would like to investigate over the next few cycles,” she instructed.

“We already did that on the trip from the Pride, Team Leader,” Vekkbeltann ventured, allowing her shell to turn a submissive turquoise. “Do you wish to review them?”

“No,” she answered. “That will not be necessary; you all know your research areas.” Squatting on one of the stools, she added, “It seems that the only thing to do now is amuse ourselves until the meeting. I am certain we will learn more about Earth as we do so.”

That is exactly what we were doing, Vrakbelstum thought. Aloud, he replied, “The television seems to display a news programme; perhaps we should increase the volume again.” He had used the handset to turn it down when Vrakzoltret had entered. Seeing her nod, he did so, thankful that they had missed the change of channel he had initiated to find a way to prevent an argument, should one erupt.

“Good day,” the newsreader was saying. “This is the BBC World Service News at 18:00 hours, Greenwich Mean Time. Here are the headlines.” The picture flashed to a display of the landing yesterday. “Aliens have landed on Earth. A diplomatic party from the spacecraft known as the Pride of the People set foot on Australian soil two days ago. They landed in an undisclosed location, near to Canberra.” Another picture was shown of the function – this time, the closing ceremony. “Five humans for five Insectoids: President Chang agreed to an exchange of research teams for one month. We look ahead at what’s in store for the Insectoids on Earth.” The Insectoids glanced at each other. This would be interesting.

The screen shifted again, this time to a view of a human Computer-God. “Another supervirus has been unleashed on the Internet. The virus has brought down entire sections of the web, causing chaos across the globe. We bring you the latest on its progress.”

A short tune played, as the image returned to the newsreader. “Good day,” he said. “It’s finally happened: Earth has made first contact with an alien species. An Insectoid landing craft has arrived from the asteroid-like mother-ship in orbit of Earth; Ollie Shaw reports on the ceremonies.”

The scene shifted again to the landing field. Vrakzoltret listened intently to the human’s impressions of the meeting, feeling sympathy for Vrakbelfam as the reporter concluded, “Despite a minor setback, the Insectoids allowed a research team to stay behind on Earth. The team is composed of five individuals, each specialising in a separate area.” The image shifted to a human male Vrakzoltret guessed to be the reporter. “Vivienne DuBois reports on the Insectoid Researchers.”

The screen shifted again, this time to a still image of the five Insectoid researchers on the landing field. “On the far right,” a voice announced, “is their ambassador, Vrakzoltret.” The Team Leader was beginning to get used to the poor human pronunciation, but she still groaned inwardly and had to keep a firm grip on the annoyed pinks that would otherwise grace her shell. “Their healer, known as Kiftzolkrup, equivalent to a human general practitioner, is on her right – our left as we see the picture. In the centre of the five is their law enforcement officer, Vrakbelstum. Next to him is their astronomer – they call her a Star-Seer, Kelkbelkrad. Their linguist, Vekkbeltann, completes their team.”

The image switched to a busy human transit system. “With Christmas and the new year almost upon us, as well as Australia Day in late January – if they stay that long – they have a great deal to look forward to.” The voice gave a brief outline of the coming festivals – too brief, in Vekkbeltann’s opinion, but more than she had expected. After this, it added, “Of course, the Insectoids aren’t just here to have fun; they have research to perform. We asked citizens from around the world what they thought the Insectoids would be interested in.”

There followed a flurry of different humans giving opinions ranging from the downright hilarious to the incredibly logical – Vrakzoltret was pleased to spot some of the team jotting down extra ideas on their mobile Computer-God tablets. Then, the voice asked what people would like to know about the Insectoids. Again, some of the ideas were incredibly obscure details, peppered with interesting points.

“A brief taster of what Earth has to offer for the Insectoids,” Ollie Shaw commented when the view shifted back to him. “Of course, Earth has also sent five intrepid explorers to the Insectoid ship.” The view shifted back to the Spaceport, this time showing the human researchers; Stevens introduced them in turn. “Earth waits with bated breath to hear their reports,” he finished. “Back to the studio.”

“Thank you Ollie,” the original newsreader answered. “Let’s hope that this exchange progresses well.” He sat a little straighter in his seat; immediately, his tone became serious. “A computer supervirus was unleashed onto the unsuspecting Internet yesterday. This virus, which seems to be adapting to all attempts to stop it, has already knocked out several major company websites, and continues to spread rapidly. Anne Mills reports.”

“The computer virus, which has been dubbed Supernova because of its ability to wreak total havoc on most operating systems, was first spotted by the computer security software company Norton,” a voice stated, showing a picture of a small PC. “The virus attaches code to a web page in the Javascript computer language. The script detects whether you have certain plug-ins – tools which can be downloaded for use with a web browser – and then loads a file onto the computer via any method it can find. It can also be spread through e-mail, as well as over open shares on a network.

“Once it is on your computer, the virus will scan for any document viewable by a browser, and add its code to the end of the document. Currently, Norton’s advice is to delete any unsolicited e-mails and disable Javascript. This is especially vital for large networks, where the program will try to send copies of itself to every other computer it can find.” The screen had been changing whilst this was being said, showing humans and computers. “If a computer is infected, it will become sluggish, to the point of no longer responding; even resetting the computer will not help as the code is also embedded into the operating system itself. If you suspect your system is infected, please take it to the nearest computer repair shop, where it can be tested and fixed without endangering other computers.”

“That sounds nasty,” Vekkbeltann commented. “I hope it does not manage to get to the Pride.”

“It would not matter if it did,” Vrakzoltret answered resolutely. “The ship’s Computer-Gods would defeat it easily. Besides, that is extremely unlikely, even with the interface our Computer-Gods provided.”

“Of course,” Vekkbeltann agreed. “I wonder where these viruses come from, though.”

”Presumably, they are programmed in the same manner as the Builders programmed our Computer-Gods,” Kelkbelkrad answered.

“But why would anyone wish to harm a Computer-God? It is senseless!”

“I am not certain; perhaps some humans are malicious, and this is why they warred amongst themselves until recently,” Vrakzoltret suggested. “We are fortunate that the People are so peaceful.”

The doorbell rang, startling the team for a moment. Vekkbeltann left the room, and returned a moment later with Prime Minister Hartup a few steps behind.

“I see you’ve been settling in well,” Hartup commented. “I hope everything’s easy to understand?”

“Perfectly; thank you for your interest, Prime Minister,” Vrakzoltret answered. “It is a pleasure to see you – we did not expect you to arrive for another five of your hours!”

“We have a global problem – a computer virus, designed to overload any computer system it infects, has caused major shutdowns throughout Earth,” he told them.

“We know – we just watched your news programme on the… er… television,” Vrakzoltret answered, struggling to remember the black box’s name. “We are shocked that Computer-Gods could be attacked in this manner.”

“We don’t revere computers as gods here, but it’s certainly shocking news – this is probably the worst virus we’ve ever seen,” he commented. “Not much we can do until the security companies can block the thing. Unfortunately, Mount Stromlo Observatory was infected; they’re in the process of rebuilding their systems now. Apparently they saw the tail end of a large file being uploaded to the Pride. They don’t know if the transfer completed, but we can’t seem to contact your ship at the moment.” He let that sink in for a few seconds.

Vekkbeltann was the first to break the silence. “So… the Pride has been damaged by this virus?” Her shell was blue, but tinged with black; Vrakzoltret knew that everyone felt just as ill at this news, but kept her shell steadfastly neutral.

“I don’t know - we’ve asked the Russians to investigate just in case. They had a spacecraft in orbit for a routine mission to the International Space Station; they were due to land later today, but under the circumstances, they didn’t want to risk it.”

“They will require codes to gain entry to the Pride of the People,” Vrakzoltret said. “If the Computer-Gods do not answer, they will have to enter through an external airlock. It is a shame we cannot join them; we would be able to give them advice.”

“If you’re willing, the Russians have agreed to have one of you in their command centre for this mission; we can fly you out there whenever you’re ready.”

“I will take this mission; Vekkbeltann will take over my duties here,” Vrakzoltret volunteered after a moment’s thought. “When do I leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready. You’ll be there for a day or two, and it’s their winter, so you might want to take something warm to wear,” Hartup told her. “I’ll give you further details once we’re on the way to the airport.”

It only took a few minutes for Vrakzoltret to prepare. She left the residence with the Prime Minister, after ordering her team to continue as normal. The room was silent after she had gone; the Insectoids were either stunned into silence or lost in thought by the morning’s events.

Vekkbeltann was the first to comment. “There is no reason for us to spend too long considering this issue. In all likelihood, the People are safe, and there is a rational explanation for their silence. We must begin our research as the Team Leader has instructed.” Even Vekkbeltann, however, could not shake the uneasiness she had felt since the Prime Minister had arrived.

***

The human airport seemed gigantic – bigger, in fact, than the launch bays on the Pride. Vrakzoltret was whisked through several security checks to a tarmac area, where several human craft stood waiting, some with pipes leading to them, others apparently ready for flight. Several humans – clearly soldiers – stood on guard around the airfield as more humans rushed between aircraft and the building she had just come from.

She soon saw their destination. Her guide identified it as an Australian Air Force jet; it was long and slender – similar, in fact, to the Pride’s landing craft, though with larger wings. The craft had an open canopy over its control deck, which seemed to take up just a small part of the plane; the rest, she guessed, was meant for fuel or weaponry.

After the pilot helped her up to the cockpit, she wondered how she was going to fit into the human seat without sustaining an injury to her thorax or abdomen. There had been no time to modify the seats for her body, so she spent a few moments attempting to curl her lower limbs around her abdomen and plant them on the craft’s deck, whilst protecting the joints between the sections of her body.

It felt strange to sit with her abdomen on the horizontal part of the chair and thorax upright, but eventually, she managed to brace herself to take heavy forces without reflexively trying to turn over, and fastened the belt around her thorax; gripping the sides of the craft with her upper and middle limbs, she told the pilot that she was secured. Raising his right hand with his thumb pointing up, the pilot spoke to someone over the radio. Within seconds, the canopy had sealed, and the small aircraft was moving along the tarmac. Puzzled by the lack of acceleration or speed, she asked the pilot about it.

“Wait a few – you’ll see what acceleration is once we’re on the runway,” the pilot answered. Resisting the urge to ask “A few what?”, she waited patiently until the plain came to a stop. The pilot again spoke into the radio, and then turned to quickly warn her to hold on. Dubiously gripping the sides even harder, she nodded once.

The pilot had been right. The small vessel rushed forward, and Vrakzoltret was slammed painfully into her seat. Resisting the urge to flip over and release her hand holds, she risked a glance through the cockpit window. The scenery flew past her, until suddenly the craft lifted from the runway, putting even more pressure on her abdomen and thorax. Forgetting the pain, she gasped as the plane banked to the north, and the pilot pulled the lever she now realised controlled the throttle back a little.

A few minutes into the flight, the pilot asked, “You okay back there?” When she nodded, he continued, “Well, cover your ears; we’re about to see what this baby can do!” Ignoring the absence of infants in the vehicle, she nodded her assent and used her upper limbs to block out unwanted noise.

As the pilot pushed the throttle forward to the position it had held on take-off, Vrakzoltret felt the pressure increase briefly, then drop as the craft shook slightly. Concerned by this, she peered out of the window, seeking the ground. The water below did not seem to be rising up at them; her worries abated even further when the pilot explained that they were now travelling faster than the speed of sound, having first taken the fastest route to the open sea to avoid damage to buildings, and that as they approached their maximum velocity, the pressure holding her into her seat so rigidly would ease off, allowing her to move into a more comfortable position. Once the force had gone, she was able to move her weight back onto her limbs, leaving a dull throb in her thorax and abdomen where they had taken the brunt of the acceleration.

Once he was satisfied that the craft was on course, the pilot switched the autopilot on, and called back to her. “You like it so far?”

“I am certainly… exhilarated,” Vrakzoltret answered. “I am not sure my body likes to be accelerated like that, though.” As the thrill of the launch wore off, her mind was drawn back to the People. “But if it helps me to find out why the People are silent, then I do not mind it,” she finished.

“This baby can do Mach 2.5 at eighteen kilometres up,” he commented. “At that speed, we’ll be over Russia in five or six hours, best guess.” After a few moments of silence, he continued, “We were expecting to get one of you to try our planes out, but we thought we’d have time to fix the seats for you first. Sorry it’s a bit cramped back there!”

“That is not a problem,” Vrakzoltret answered. “I can cope. I am sure Vrakbelstum would like even this chance to fly in your craft.”

“Vrakbelstum… he’s the guard, right?” Seeing her nod, he continued, “We’ll have him up here after this emergency’s over, I’ve no doubt.” He pressed a switch on the control board. “Now we’re up, I’ve turned on the auto-pilot. I don’t recommend undoing your belt, though; if we hit turbulence at this speed, you’ll know all about it.”

“Understood,” Vrakzoltret nodded, shifting in her seat to make the unusual posture easier to ignore; she would have to cope with it for a full three poraks, assuming the pilot’s estimate was accurate.

“You don’t look too comfortable,” the pilot observed. “I don’t think you can tilt the seat back on these planes, unfortunately, but you should at least be able to stretch a bit.”

“I am not in a natural posture,” she agreed. “My body is built so that, usually, I stand tall or squat on several limbs. The use of my rear shell as a point of contact with this seat is a strange experience for me. But I will become accustomed to it soon.”


Pride Before a Fall

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 16 December

Maris leapt back from the console as it began to spark uncontrollably. Ducking out of the way, she looked around her room. Seeing nothing she could use as a fire extinguisher, she slammed the button next to her door to open it. Nothing happened, even after repeated attempts. Gripping the emergency handle, she pulled with all her might, as the room filled with revolting plumes of smoke. Ducking down to pull a breath of fresh air, she made one more monumental effort, and finally pulled the door open just enough to squeeze through, followed by the acrid fumes from her room.

Kothari, Morrow and Phelps were already out of their rooms by the time Maris emerged, but Garcia was nowhere in sight. Sparks flew from the buttons by her door, indicating that someone had already tried to reach her, and that the problem had not been confined to Maris’ console. As the team tried banging on the door, Cabin 1 opened slowly, and Vrakzolfix stumbled out, making a strange hacking noise that Maris took to be an Insectoid cough.

“The Computer-Gods are unhappy,” the High Governor commented. “The Control Centre crew reports that they were forced by their consoles to evacuate. I have already tried to contact Spostzolrib, but my console was destroyed before I could do so.”

“Our consoles were also destroyed, High Governor. We can’t reach Dr. Garcia; it’s possible that she already left, but she would’ve tried to contact us first if she knew something was going wrong,” Maris said, taking charge of the human research team in Garcia’s absence. “Either she’s unconscious, or she hasn’t tried to use her terminal.”

“There is a manual override on all of the doors, covered by a metal plate,” Vrakzolfix commented. “It is known only to our Enforcement Guardians and the senior Vrakzol.” He reached under the scanner next to Garcia’s door, twisting and pulling it upward. It lifted away revealing a small lever, which he pressed down.

Garcia’s door hissed as it jerked slightly ajar, and Vrakzolfix grabbed hold of it. Assisted by Phelps and Morrow, he wrenched the door open, revealing a room completely unaffected by smoke or sparking consoles. Garcia was sat at a small table, reading a book she had brought with her.

“Good morning,” Garcia said, smiling. “You could have knocked.”

“We did knock,” Maris answered, and ushered Garcia outside.

Stunned by the volume of smoke in the corridor, and in the still-open rooms from which their occupants had recently emerged, Garcia raised a quizzical eyebrow at Maris, who explained what had happened.

“We must plan how to deal with this, and quickly,” Vrakzolfix broke in before anyone else could comment. “If you will excuse me, I must consult with my fellow Vrakzol.” He set off down the corridor on all six of his limbs at great pace.

“We’d like to help,” Garcia called, racing to keep up. “If there’s a problem with your computers, we might be able to repair it before it gets too bad.”

“This is not bad?” Vrakzolfix asked. “We have no access to the Computer-Gods. Without them, the Rituals will not be run; without them, the Pride of the People is just a space-rock, and the People are doomed.”

“We have plenty of experience with computers,” Morrow chimed in. “We could certainly try to help!”

“The Vrakzol will consider it. Equally, they might see this as an act of human treachery; you have only just arrived on board, after all!”

“There’s no way we could have done this,” Kothari panted. “Why would we sabotage this ship? What do we stand to gain?”

“That will be determined,” Vrakzolfix responded, putting on some extra speed as he reached the lifts.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” Phelps called. “If the computers elsewhere are down, transit computers will certainly be inoperative, and you’d be trapped!”

The doors closed, and Vrakzolfix was soon heard coughing and shouting for help. As a team, the humans pulled the doors apart, and the High Governor stumbled out into Maris’ arms, his shell an angry, pained crimson. Once he had caught his breath, and his shell had turned blue, he looked closely at his rescuers. “If you were against the People, you would have left me to die,” he pronounced. “You warned me to avoid the transit system, but I did not listen. You are not the enemy. I must apologise for my harsh words; I will be glad to accept whatever help you can give.”

“We should first warn the People not to use computer panels,” Garcia instructed. “Word of mouth will be necessary, although I don’t doubt that plenty of people will have discovered this problem for themselves. Then, we must organise rescue teams; people will be trapped in lifts and in their rooms.” She started walking toward the commercial section at the fore of the ship. “Once the People are safe, we can work on getting the ship up and running again.”

“How will we do that? If the Computer-Gods will not function, we can do nothing!” Vrakzolfix began to turn a worried green, but quickly reined his shell in.

“I suggest trying to contact Earth,” Maris answered. “We have enough expertise between us that we should be able to isolate a transmitter and use it. They may have some suggestions.”

“Very well; we will split into three teams,” Garcia asserted. “Ambassador Maris and I will try to start warning the People. Dr. Kothari, Sergeant Phelps – you will begin to form rescue teams. This will also involve warning the People. Dr. Morrow, I’d like you to try to contact Earth for help.”

“I will use the emergency passages to join the Vrakzol committee,” Vrakzolfix told them. “I can also warn the People whilst I am on my way.”

“We’ll need to stay in contact,” Morrow added. “I brought some Earth radio communications sets – not powerful enough to reach Earth at this distance, but we can at least use them on the ship. I’d intended to let your scientists examine them to see what Earth technology was like,” he explained. “I have six in total.” Garcia nodded, and he rushed off, returning minutes later, carrying six battered walkie-talkies. “Press this button to speak,” he instructed, “but remember that only one person can talk at once. You need to say ‘Over’ to let us know when you’re done talking.” Turning to Vrakzolfix, he added, “I need to test one thing. Please hold this against your translator,” he requested, handing over one of the units. He walked a few metres away. “Morrow to Vrakzolfix; do you understand, over?”

The translator clicked and whirred as Morrow’s voice came over the speaker. Vrakzolfix held the translator to the communications unit. “I understand, over,” he clicked, holding the speech button in, and heard his voice come out over his companions’ sets, followed almost instantly by the English translation. The four humans close by him looked confused for a moment; they had just heard the translator itself, and then the walkie-talkies, giving an eerie echo effect.

“Good,” Morrow answered. “I would try to install the translator in your set, but there’s not enough time, and I’m not an engineer. Morrow out,” he finished, returning to the group.

“You will find walkways between levels throughout the ship,” Vrakzolfix told the humans. “They are marked by that symbol,” he said, pointing to a nearby sign, coloured yellow with the outline of a square inside a circle in black. “Good luck.”

***

Garcia and Maris headed for the centre of the commercial sector, after retrieving translation units for the research team. They stopped everyone they passed, asking them to also spread the word and start checking lifts and locked rooms, in case anyone was inside. The Insectoids were much faster than the humans at spreading the word; they simply dropped onto six limbs and raced about, though some of them seemed to doubt whether the humans were telling the truth – until they tried to use a nearby terminal, and it began to fizz.

As they got closer to the sector’s centre, Garcia noticed that many of the terminals were already burnt out; clearly, Insectoids had been caught using them when they went offline. Nearby Insectoids were milling around aimlessly, as wisps of smoke continued to drift from the consoles; none of them seemed willing to approach any of the computers, and many of them were standing fully upright, exposing their soft front shells. Maris mentioned her observation briefly to Garcia.

“They revere the ship’s computers as gods,” Garcia explained. “Of course they’re confused and upset that the computers aren’t working properly. If your god seemed to smite you in this manner, wouldn’t you be upset?”

“The God of Israel is a true God, though,” Maris asserted. “Computers are just technology. They require repair, that’s all.”

“‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,’” Garcia quoted. “Or, in this case, godhood. I’m getting the idea that these people are no longer as technologically advanced as their ancestors were.”

“How so?”

“The whole ship seems obsessed with rituals – they have rituals for almost everything. That’s including controlling the ship whilst it’s in-system.”

“Well, we have protocols for our vessels too.”

“We don’t, however, spend thousands of years letting the ship do all the work. My hypothesis right now is that the protocols became a religion for these people; something to aspire to.” Garcia nodded at a group of Insectoids standing tall before the computers. “Don’t you see how they bare their most vulnerable side to the computer? That’s an invitation for the computer to understand their most hidden secrets, and to do with them whatever it wants.”

“Either that or it’s the Car Crash Syndrome – things go disastrously wrong and everyone stops to stare.”

“No – I don’t think so. They’d be on four or six limbs if that were the case. Also, everyone has been referring to the computers as gods, and until now, the computers have not needed repair. To the Insectoids, the computers have been all-powerful, all-knowing, invincible and perfect. If that’s not the dictionary definition of a God, then nothing is.”

Maris was silent for a moment, before commenting, “That certainly adds a new level to this situation.” Seeing Garcia nod in agreement, she added, “The question is, how do we deal with this?”

Garcia thought about Maris’ question for a few minutes before answering. “We do our job,” she said at length. “We help with this crisis, if we can, then we spend the rest of our stay examining the Insectoids’ culture.”

“We’re not going to tell them the truth?”

“We can’t undo thousands of years of culture without reason,” Garcia asserted. “If you or I suddenly found out that our gods were just machines, rather than the omnipotent beings we believe in, the result would be catastrophic.”

“But this is different,” Maris retorted angrily. “Their gods ARE machines – there’s no way my God is anything but a God! I wouldn’t listen if you said otherwise, because I’d still know in my heart that you’re wrong!” Pausing, she reviewed her last comment. Then, after a second, she added, “Oh. I… I see what you mean.”

***

“Get him to the Kift-vurrl,” Kothari called through the smoke at the Insectoid who had just pulled someone from a smoke-filled lift. “No, not in the lifts, use the walkways!” He and Phelps had spent the last hour recruiting as many of the People as possible to open doors and transport the injured to the Kift-vurrl, or Healer’s place, five decks above them.

“I apologise,” called the Insectoid, as she carried her injured compatriot to the nearest emergency corridor. So far, the injuries had been caused by smoke inhalation for the most part; the majority of Insectoids had the good sense to drop to the ground, allowing their shells to protect them, when the sparks had begun to shoot from the terminal they were using.

A few, however, had just stood there, allowing their soft fronts to be charred by the sparks, and howled – at least, Kothari assumed that their hissing was the equivalent of a howl – in extreme pain when they were carried out of the lifts in which they had been trapped. Fortunately, none of the trapped Insectoids had been dead upon retrieval so far. They had, Kothari reflected, been lucky; sooner or later, that luck would run out. He quickly examined the individual he had just pulled out of yet another lift. This wasn’t how he’d imagined learning about Insectoid biology, but by now, he could see the tell-tale signs of smoke inhalation. Another few seconds, and the Insectoid – a young female - would have asphyxiated. Indeed, if Kothari did not act immediately, she would die.

Using his meagre knowledge of insect biology, he found where the Insectoid’s lungs were most likely to lie. Pressing down on the lung area, then releasing, he noted the volume of smoke coming from her respiration tubes. He continued attempting to massage the lung, expelling more and more smoke each time, but the Insectoid’s breathing did not improve. Suspecting that the body was close to shutting down, he called one of the rescuers over, and explained what he needed.

Understanding, the helper – Strintekval – placed her hands on the Insectoid’s neck. “The blood does not flow; her heart will not pump,” she asserted. “The smoke has killed her.”

“It hasn’t yet,” Kothari snapped. “Where’s her heart?” Strintekval indicated a location in the centre of the thorax. “Continue the lung massage as I’ve been doing until she starts breathing again.” He placed one hand either side of the heart, then began to perform a heart massage, hoping desperately that this would work.

Within seconds, he felt the heart begin to pump weakly on its own; lending his own force to help the beats, he continued massaging. A few seconds later, Strintekval leapt back in surprise as the stricken Insectoid lurched violently, emitting one more plume of smoke from her lungs, along with a cough. Kothari lessened the pressure he was using, allowing the heart and lungs to function freely; as he did so, his patient’s eyes opened.

Only once the patient was out of immediate danger did Kothari check for other injuries. The shell had been slightly charred, mandating a trip to the Kift-vurrl, but other than that, she appeared uninjured. Allowing her to rise onto four shaky limbs, he asked Strintekval to escort her, and continued down the corridor to check the next lift.


Australiology

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 16 December

Vekkbeltann had examined the human residence completely after the Australian Prime Minister departed. The information the team had been given suggested that this was a fairly typical domicile – “house”, she recalled, wondering how Vrakzoltret had managed the human sounds so perfectly. The other three researchers still in this country were taking the time to examine the human television and computer-god, though without extensive instructions, they had not managed to do much with the computer-god apart from activate it. Perhaps, Vekkbeltann thought, they expect us to know instinctively what small rodents, external viewing stations and boards for door-activation devices have to do with their computer-gods. She supposed that the “mouse”, “windows” and “keyboard” were properties of the Gods on Earth that she did not understand.

Joining Vrakbelstum at the work surface which held the computer-god, she commented, “That device with human letters on intrigues me. I do not recognise some of the symbols, however.” She lifted it to examine it, but a cord connected it to the Computer-God’s central structure, and she was forced to change her grip to keep from dropping it. In doing so, she accidentally pressed the rectangle with the word “Tab” written on it. The image on what Vekkbeltann took to be the display, which they had all tried pressing to no avail, altered slightly, as one of the inset images gained a blue surrounding rectangle, and a white box popped up next to it. “Administrator,” she read. “Enter password.” To Vrakbelstum, she commented, “The orders given to us say to press certain keys on the keyboard. Perhaps this is the device in question, and a ‘key’ is also the name of one of these rectangles?”

“That appears to be the case,” Vrakbelstum answered, taking the keyboard from her and placing it on the desk, accidentally jogging another device and causing a small image that seemed to point up and to the left to move. “This may be the mouse,” he added, placing his hand on it and moving it experimentally. “Motion causes that small image to move in a similar pattern.” He manipulated the device so that the arrow was over the word “Guest”. “We know that the two front pieces make a soft click when pressed,” he said, then trailed off as his push on the left button caused even more change on the screen.

This time, a beautiful image of a lake with a sun in the sky appeared, with a grey bar at the bottom, containing the word “Start” and several small pictures. The top left of the image was obscured slightly when several more images appeared atop it, but Vekkbeltann read the words below the images and realised that these must be “icons”. The two Insectoids watched the screen for a short while in case anything else happened.

“I see you have persuaded the Computer-God to act,” Kiftzolkrup commented as he joined them.

“Yes; this appears to be a portal image allowing us to access the functions of the Computer-God,” Vekkbeltann replied. “There are some numbers in the bottom-right of the screen – they change about once every sixty-five keppaks, which is equivalent to a human “min-nit”, so I assume that they represent the time.” Seeing her colleague’s blank look, she explained the human time system to her colleagues. She barely kept the exasperation out of her shell as she added, “I wish humans would stick to one numeric base; it was hard enough to translate from our twelve-character system to their ten-character system, but human chronometers are almost incomprehensible!”

“At least they use multiples of twelve, though,” Kiftzolkrup pointed out. To clarify, he added, “So one Earth second is just over one keppak, one minute is about eleven-twelfths of a lasak, and one hour is three quarters of a porak?”

“You are close enough,” Vekkbeltann answered. “Your portable computer-god has been told the exact conversion rates, and can help you translate between the two systems.” She glanced at her own chronometer. “I believe Prime Minister Hartup will arrive soon,” she said as Kelkbelkrad deactivated the television and joined them. “What did you discover from the television?”

Kelkbelkrad turned her shell a neutral blue and began her report. “There are many different transmissions from which humans may select their preferred broadcast. Kiftzolkrup and I spent some time in observation of several of them. There appears to be at least one global television network, known as the ‘BeeBeeSee’, which originally was constrained to a small island-nation known as ‘YewKay’, an abbreviation for ‘United Kingdom’. This network provides a Cycle-long update program to inform humans around the world of relevant events; this is the broadcast we observed earlier.” She quickly met Vrakbelstum’s gaze; the look said, I know what you did, but I will not betray your secret. To Vrakbelstum’s credit, he did not openly respond. “These broadcasts do not work in tandem – instead, they seem to compete; we have found instances of several ‘channels’, or broadcast frequencies, that produced the same information at the same time.

“Most of these broadcasts, however, are devoted to fictional entertainment; we viewed fragments of several stories being broadcast as serials. One inter-programme announcement referred to it as a ‘soap opera’.” She checked his notes. “A soap opera is a long-term story, constantly under construction, which usually examines life in a given area of Earth. I believe that copies of such programmes may assist us in comprehension of human culture, although they will inevitably contain more drama than real human society, to keep humans interested in them.

“We also witnessed several more ‘cartoons’ and animations, although we felt that these would most likely be similar to the one we viewed earlier. Clearly, humans need great quantities of laughter and entertainment to keep them occupied while they are at rest. Although I am not assigned to study the humans’ home life, I am pleased to have this opportunity, as it has also given me insight into the human mind, which I can use in my investigation into the history of human star-sight methods.” She handed her writing tablet to Vekkbeltann. “My full notes are here if you wish to view them.”

“That will not be necessary,” Vekkbeltann answered as she heard the doorbell ring. “The Prime Minister has arrived to discuss our itinerary.” As she left the room, her three team-mates joined her and lined up along the wall opposite the lounge, as if to guide their guest into the meeting.

Vekkbeltann pulled sharply on the handle and the door opened with such force that she was only just able to prevent it smashing into the wall. It will take time to learn how to do that properly, she thought. She extended her four arms, clasping her grippers together, and turned her shell turquoise. “I welcome you to our domicile, Sir,” she intoned. “May the Computer-Gods bless your visit.” She began to lower her arms, but the Prime Minister extended his in a human version of the same gesture.

“Thank you for your welcome,” Prime Minister Hartup responded, remembering the Ritual he had been told to expect. “May this place always be blessed.”

“I did not expect you to be aware of our Ritual,” Vekkbeltann answered, her shell turning deep purple by itself as she lowered her arms. “I am honoured by your presence, as are my colleagues.”

Hartup lowered his own arms. “I asked for a description of what Rituals I should expect from you when we agreed on the exchange,” he told the surprised Insectoid. As Vekkbeltann stepped aside to allow him in, he noticed that the other three Insectoids had their arms in the same gesture. “You do me a great honour,” he said, raising his own arms once more, then lowering them after a second. “But I am the one who should be welcoming you to Australian soil, not the other way around.”

“Perhaps we should begin our discussion,” Vekkbeltann suggested. “Is the lounge area an acceptable venue?”

“Of course,” Hartup answered, entering the room. “I see you managed to get the computer working,” he smiled. “We were going to send someone to give you some instruction in its use,” he commented. “I didn’t think you’d know what half the terms in the instruction booklet meant.”

“We did not know, but we experimented,” Vekkbeltann told him as the Insectoids followed him in. “We have only managed to persuade the Computer-God to allow us to access its functions; we do not yet understand how to access anything other than this screen.”

“We’ve arranged for someone from the local university to take you through all of that; they will arrive after this meeting, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course; we anticipate greatly exploration of the Internet, especially – your television broadcasts have suggested some web sites to visit that we feel would be of interest.” Vrakbelstum retrieved his notes from the desk where he had left them. “I have a full list, but that can wait until your Priest arrives.”

“Actually, the lady in question is a computer scientist,” Hartup corrected him, then remembered their discussion that morning. “As I mentioned when I was here earlier, we do not treat computers as gods; they are technology to us, and although we need computer scientists and engineers to build, program and repair them, the same can be said for many areas of life.”

“The same is true of the People,” Vekkbeltann commented. “Our names will tell you of our area of expertise; we have many castes, but I can tell you of our largest.” When the Prime Minister nodded, she continued, “The Vrak caste contains our military and governmental structure, the Spost caste… I suppose they are the equivalent of your computer scientists and engineers, although they are also priests to us. The Kift are our healers, the Bisp are trained to be creative in music and art, and the Brak are our public servants.”

“Public servants? As in, junior government officials?”

“No… they work to help the People in their daily Rituals and activities. The Brak often come into contact with the rest of the People in their work,” Kiftzolkrup answered. “We use them as a point of contact between castes,” he added. “They have a great deal of latitude in their activities on the Pride – after all, our society would collapse without them.”

“I think I understand – they’re the equivalent of our shopkeepers and public sector workers,” Hartup answered. “Anyway, we should really discuss your itinerary for the next week or so. I realise you probably have plenty of research ideas, but the world’s eyes are on Canberra right now. They’re going to want to hear your views – we’ve had several requests to interview you, and plenty for you to make appearances at special events over the Christmas period.”

“Then we must not disappoint the world’s eyes,” Vekkbeltann answered, her shell flickering from white to turquoise to blue again. “Vrakzoltret was to be the Voice of the People and to communicate with the populace of Earth. As I have taken on her duties, this task now falls to me.” She consulted her own list of research activities. “I am to explore the use of language in different situations; for example, Vrakzoltret suggests that I observe inter- and intra-caste communications if possible, but we were not certain whether you even have castes here.”

“Some Earth cultures have an unofficial class system,” Hartup confirmed, “But we don’t emphasise it much as you do. The structure of our classes differs from nation to nation, although you often find three main classes – working, middle and upper. I can get you some literature on that if you’d like.”

“I would be grateful for that,” Vekkbeltann said. “Thank you.”

“We’ll see what we can do about letting you observe our society, too; I think we can find a group who will allow you to accompany them for a few days.” This, he knew, was an understatement – the Australian Government had received over five thousand invitations for the Insectoids to attend social events. He had disregarded them, but if Vekkbeltann was interested, he did not see why she should not attend one or two. “If you feel ready, though, the Australian Broadcasting Company would like you to appear on one of their programmes tomorrow, to be interviewed about your first impressions of Earth.” Seeing the Insectoids’ acting leader nod her assent, he told them, “The limousine we used yesterday will collect you at 9:00 in the morning, then. I’ll leave you a full list of interview requests when I leave; there are rather a lot of them, and it’d take a few hours to go through the whole list right now. Some requests are for just one or two of you to attend – for example, the Australian Red Cross would like Kiftzolkrup to speak to a symposium about the People’s medical practice.”

“We shall examine the list this evening and tell you which ones we can attend tomorrow,” Vekkbeltann promised. “Although I suspect that Kiftzolkrup will have nothing to say that this Red Cross do not practise themselves.” She glanced at Kiftzolkrup, whose turquoise shell signalled his agreement. “I am certain that he would like to visit medical facilities here to understand your medical abilities and tools more thoroughly, though.”

“We thought as much,” Hartup answered. “The Canberra Hospital would be glad to have him as a guest, though you understand that if there’s an emergency…”

“The emergency must be given priority,” Kiftzolkrup finished for him. “I understand completely.”

“Kelkbelkrad wishes to examine how star-sight is achieved on a relatively stationary planet,” Vekkbeltann continued. “He feels that it must be harder to determine the exact distance from your location to a star without the motion of a vessel to assist you.”

“The Anglo-Australian Observatory, which first detected your signal, will be able to explain the history of astronomy in depth,” Hartup answered. “You should find it most interesting.”

“Finally, Vrakbelstum wishes to discuss approaches to civilian and military security. He will also accompany the rest of us when he is not engaged in research, to provide security and to gain insight into the human mind,” the linguist finished.

“Yes; our security operatives tell me that criminology is vitally important in their work. We have already arranged for Vrakbelstum to speak with senior civil and military security specialists.”

“Thank you once again,” Vekkbeltann answered.

The meeting continued for around another porak, during which the specifics of the Insectoids’ itinerary were discussed. The research team made certain that plenty of time was allocated for the Rituals and a few interviews, but other than that, they packed their time with activities designed to increase their understanding of humans.

Eventually, aside from the interview requests, their itinerary was complete. As the Prime Minister was about to depart, he turned, arms raised and clasped once again. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, using the words of the Departure Ritual. “May your residence continue to be blessed, and may you rest well this dormancy-period.”

Vekkbeltann raised her own arms in response. “May your journey be uneventful,” she intoned as the human left the building. Lowering her arms and closing the door, she finally relaxed her grip on her shell.

[Jim Gamma]

To the Rescue

Russia, Earth, 16 December

Five hours into the flight, the pilot told Vrakzoltret to get ready for landing. “Don’t worry, this’ll be gentle; I’ve slowed us down to landing speed already,” he told her. “We’ll land in Moscow in about five minutes.”

“Understood,” Vrakzoltret answered, gripping the sides of the aircraft again. “I assume I need to reset my chronometer?”

“Yep – they’re ten hours behind Canberra,” the pilot answered, before speaking into the radio for a minute. “They’re ready for us,” he explained, banking the aircraft to land at a military base. “We’ll be met on the runway and taken to the transport that’ll take us to their space centre.”

The next few minutes were silent, as the pilot concentrated on landing. Reversing the engines as he touched down, and applying full brakes, he kept the craft travelling in a straight line, turning off the runway once most of the speed had been shed. The craft rolled to a halt some distance away from the base’s buildings, and the canopy opened slowly. The occupants climbed out, dropping (or, in Vrakzoltret’s case, rolling) onto the ground as two Russian guards jogged up to them, halting a metre or so away. One of them took a pace forward.

“I am Colonel Vladimir Baikov; this is Major Alyona Mokasheva,” the Russian began in fluent English. “Welcome to Russia.”

“I am Vrakzoltret, Speaker of the People, and this is Flight Lieutenant Paul Greene of the Australian Air Force,” Vrakzoltret answered, following the protocol she had been taught en route. “Thank you for the welcome.”

“If you will follow us, we will take you to our Cosmodrome in Bolshevo.” The Colonel turned to the pilot. “Your craft will be refuelled, so that you can return to your country when you are ready.”

The group moved away from the aircraft and crossed the tarmac to a large vessel with long, thin blades whirring both on top and at the tail end. Vrakzoltret looked doubtfully at it for a moment. “What is that?”

“The fastest way to Bolshevo,” Mokasheva answered, chuckling. “We can’t go as fast as that Australian craft, but we can get into tighter places than they can.” She grinned with pride, and took hold of one of the doors. When he opened it, Vrakzoltret was surprised to see that it contained a modified stool as well as the human seats. “We had five hours to prepare this,” Mokasheva explained, when she queried it. “It should be a bit more comfortable than the Australian vehicle.”

“It looks it,” Vrakzoltret answered, climbing into the craft. “I am not sure your craft will fly, but you know your own craft,” she added, once again attempting a human-like laugh. She was, she thought, slowly beginning to understand how to use human languages as a human would – something she had been attempting to achieve for a while. “I am ready when you are.”

“Very well,” Baikov answered, closing the door as he entered, following Greene and Mokasheva. Baikov took the pilot seat and soon, the clatter of the rotors began to grow in pitch and volume. Glancing through the window, Vrakzoltret noticed the airfield dropping away beneath them. The take-off had been much less obvious in the helicopter – although part of that was probably down to the comfortable stool.

The helicopter eventually landed just outside the Bolshevo cosmodrome, and Mokasheva opened the door, letting the occupants out. “The ground control station we will be using is over there,” Mokasheva explained, pointing at the nearest building. “I would give you the grand tour, but we are expecting our cosmonauts to arrive at your ship soon.” She led the group along a nearby pathway.

Inside the building, Greene and Vrakzoltret were taken to a large room filled with computers, screens and displays. At each display, humans were busy pressing buttons and talking through radios. One of the humans looked up as they entered, and smiled at them.

“Welcome to Bolshevo,” she greeted them. “I am Major General Olesya Tamirova; I am in command of this mission today, and your assistance is very welcome,” she continued, leading them down into the Ground Control area. “Our cosmonauts are close to your vessel; the Pride still has not answered our messages.”

“I am Vrakzoltret, and this is Lieutenant Greene,” Vrakzolfix began. “If the Computer-Gods can hear our transmissions, a landing bay should have opened at their approach after you transmitted the code we sent.” She glanced at a screen showing a RADAR scan of her vessel. “Since that hasn’t happened, I assume that this was unsuccessful.” She looked at Tamirova, who nodded. “Your cosmonauts will need to find one of the manual entry hatches that were created when the ship was built. They are circular, and can be pulled out and to the side, allowing entry into an airlock.”

“We believe we have already found one; if you check the screen at the front of the room, you will see a video feed from the cosmonauts,” Tamirova said. “You may direct them from this station by using the green button to talk with them.”

“That is one of them, yes.” Vrakzoltret pressed the green button at the top of the desk. “This is Vrakzoltret of the People to the human cosmonauts by entryway 75-Blue-One.”

A voice laced with humour came over the speakers. “This is Cosmonaut Sergei Markov. Is that what this is? I’d never have guessed.”

“I assume that’s humour,” Vrakzoltret answered. “You have the right place. You need to turn the circular wheels spaced evenly around the edge of the entryway, then pull it out using the central projection. There are six wheels in total; take them by the edge closest to the centre and turn them to the left. Once you turn them as far as you can, they should drop into the hull.”

“Six wheels? Just a moment.” Markov had obviously moved, as the front screen shifted to the edge of the entrance, revealing a ring about a metre in diameter. The ring grew larger as Markov approached, and soon a hand appeared in the picture, grasping the bottom of the wheel and began to twist it. After half a turn, Markov released the wheel, and it dropped into position. “One down, five to go!”

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 16 December

As Markov dropped the last wheel into place, he longed to wipe his brow. He had been sweating for the last five minutes; this Insectoid craft was certainly giving him a good workout. “Done,” he called into his radio, before moving to the centre of the entrance. “The bump in the centre of the door looks a little bigger. Turning the wheels must have pushed a locking mechanism into an expandable pouch.”

“That may be correct,” came Vrakzoltret’s voice. “You need to grip the protrusion on either side, and pull hard. There should be handholds in the protrusion itself.”

Markov did as instructed, and the door opened slowly by about a metre. As he ducked inside, and began to pull the door closed, he realised there was a problem. “I’m going to have to ditch my air hose to complete this walk,” he commented into his radio. “I’ll wait until the absolute last minute, but the reserves of air in my suit will only give me a few seconds.”

“Understood, Sergei,” Tamirova answered via the radio. “Go when ready; Vrakzoltret assures me that pressurisation will begin mechanically once the door is sealed.”

“Pull the door closed gently,” Vrakzoltret told him. “It should take about a minute for the pressures in the ship and airlock to equalise. It is controlled so that you can become accustomed to the new pressure as it rises.”

Markov didn’t answer. He was already pulling the door shut and preparing to detach his hose. As the door began to squash the hose, he took one last breath and released it, forcing all of the air from his lungs to avoid explosive decompression. The oxygen he had would have to last. He pulled the hose loose, and hefted the door into the closed position. He listened for the hiss of air entering the chamber, watching the locking mechanisms shoot back into place.

For a split second, he worried that the procedure had not completed, but air began to hiss into the chamber. At first, Markov failed to notice, but when he was able to breathe, albeit with difficulty, he thumbed the radio transmitter. “I’m in,” he panted. “Just… just give me a moment…”

“Take your time,” Vrakzoltret told him. “You need to regain your strength after that. When you are ready, you can open the inner airlock by pressing the stud on the inner control panel.”

As Markov’s vision cleared (when did it go blurry? he wondered), he looked around the inside of the airlock. Turning his flashlight to the wall opposite the outer door, he found the stud Vrakzoltret had mentioned. He pressed it, and spun to his left as one of the walls slid aside, revealing a long corridor.

Before Markov could step forward, Vrakzoltret’s voice came through the radio once more. “The corridor is constructed to acclimatise you to the ship’s gravity. You are currently the wrong way up; your feet should be on the blue-tiled surface.” Markov righted himself, and Vrakzoltret continued. “Go slowly along the corridor. As you do, gravity will seem to increase. Feel free to stop at any point if you wish to do so.”

Initially, the pull of gravity was not obvious to Markov, but before he had gone ten metres, his legs began to shudder. Space sickness, he guessed. I am a cosmonaut; I don’t get space-sick, he told himself, before grasping the wall to steady himself. After a few minutes’ rest, he managed to regain his balance and reach the end of the corridor without further incident.

Vrakzoltret spoke once more. “You now need to head for the Control Centre,” she told him. “Turn right, and walk until you see a sign with three vertical bars. That is our internal transit system.” As Markov did this, she continued, “Transit entry-ways are inside small alcoves; your presence will be detected and a cubicle will arrive automatically. Once you enter, I will take you through instructing the lift.” As she said this, two Insectoids rushed out of a nearby junction, one carrying the other, with the help of Dr. Kothari.

Ex Praeteritus Calamitas

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 16 December

Kothari barely noticed the man in the space-suit as he charged toward the nearest walkway. He was more interested in keeping the Insectoid he was carrying calm and safe. The Insectoid – whose name was Brakbelzot – had several broken bones, as well as a badly damaged exoskeleton. He had been attempting to use a computer terminal to open a door. Surprisingly, he had managed to get halfway through before the door slammed shut, trapping him in its vice-like grip. It had taken five seconds for a rescue team to respond to his screams, but a lot longer than that to free him.

When the man caught up with his team and introduced himself, however, he grinned. “Chris didn’t tell us he’d contacted Earth! Welcome aboard, Cosmonaut!”

“He didn’t – Earth couldn’t raise the vessel, and since we were doing maintenance on the ISS, we were asked to investigate,” Markov answered. “Perhaps you would brief me on what’s been happening.”

Without further preamble, Kothari explained. “All the computers are down; we don’t know why. Whenever someone uses a terminal, it sparks, or causes major malfunctions. We’ve got most of the population into deck 75’s meeting area, but there’s still over a hundred missing.”

“A computer virus was released on Earth yesterday; we think it may have caused the systems on the ship to overload,” Markov said.

“I’d better contact my team.” Kothari pulled his radio from his belt. “Kothari to all team members – Earth is aware of our predicament; Cosmonaut Sergei Markov has boarded the vessel, and will attempt to assist; over!”

“I thought I was doing that job, Sanjay,” Morrow replied over his own radio. “But good work, anyway. Cosmonaut, do you have experience with computers, over?”

Markov took the communicator from Kothari, and spoke into it. “Yes – my team was upgrading part of the ISS when we were asked to investigate, over.”

“Good; come down to Deck 120, section green. Where are you now? I can give you directions, over.”

“Deck 75, section blue, I think. My ground control has Vrakzoltret with them; she should be able to give me instructions, over.”

“Use the walkways – the lifts are death-traps right now, over.”

“Will do – Markov out,” he said, returning the radio to Kothari and slowing down. “Vrakzoltret, did you get all that?”

“Yes; I will give you instructions to reach Deck 120, but once you are in green section, I cannot help you much. The Computer-Gods reside on decks 120-125 green, and none of the People have ever had to visit.”

“Understood,” Markov answered. Once Vrakzoltret had given him a series of instructions, he jogged down the corridor after Kothari. The nearest walkway was, as he had guessed, where the doctor was heading when Markov had appeared. Within a minute, he arrived at the walkway system. One pathway led up, the other down; both were carpeted in the same blue tiles as before.

He quickly descended to deck 120, losing count and nearly descending an extra deck before Vrakzoltret told him he had arrived, and gave him further instructions. He exited the walkway system and found himself in a dimly-lit expanse, which seemed designed to act as an automated factory. When he asked Vrakzoltret, she told him that the Computer-Gods used this area to create some of the items necessary for keeping the craft running – in fact, everything below Deck 111 was used by the ship’s automated processes.

The carpet tiles turned from blue to green after Markov had walked some way down the ship. Thanking Vrakzoltret for excellent guidance, he entered the nearest corridor, which brought him to another large room, this one filled with what looked like hundreds of printed circuit boards slotted into the walls. A young, dark-haired, tanned man was on the other side of the room, working on a computer terminal. Walking over, he asked, “Dr. Morrow?”

“That’s me,” the man answered. “You must be Cosmonaut Markov.” He smiled. “Working on your hypothesis of a virus, I’ve managed to isolate some malicious code on this terminal with my lap-top,” he commented. “I guess it was a good idea for me to bring a copy of the interface program with me. I think I’ve cleared it, but I need to write a program that’ll remove the code from all systems. Then we need to begin work on restoring the rest of the terminals throughout the ship. Half of them are out of commission until the auto-repair sequence starts, but that won’t happen until the core is clean.”

“A program was transmitted to my vessel for installation on the ISS computers. It should delete all traces of the virus,” Markov said. “I can install it on your lap-top computer, then we can connect it to the terminal again. With luck, your interface program will be able to translate it into a form the Insectoid computers understand.”

“Yeah, it probably would,” Morrow answered, allowing Markov to install his software. “Starting a scan now,” he said, activating the program, which began its scan in the background. Eventually, the scan completed, and Morrow entered a few commands. A few seconds later, he nodded in satisfaction. “All clear; time to clean this ship’s computers.” He tapped in another set of commands, and the words “Link-up established” appeared on the screen. “I love wireless networking,” he commented. “It’s so much easier to connect incompatible systems by radio waves than by finding the right cables.”

“Especially when those cables don’t exist,” Markov commented dryly. “Begin the interface program; once it transfers the antivirus program, we shall try to reset the computers on this vessel.”

“Translation started,” Morrow said, then stood back to let the interface program do its work. He still did not fully understand how it functioned, but hopefully this sequence would help improve his theories. A few seconds later, the interface reported that the scan had begun. “The system’s quite big; it’ll take a while for the scan to finish. I’d better let the team know of our intentions.” He pulled out a walkie-talkie much like Kothari’s from his belt. “Morrow to all team members, we are attempting to clear the ship’s computers of all traces of the virus. Depending on how much data there is, this could take a while. Once that’s done, we’ll try to reset the computers. When we do that, systems might take a moment to reinitialise, over.”

“This is Vrakzolfix,” came a voice obviously translated from the Insectoid language. “What length of time will we have to wait before the Computer-Gods can respond to our requests, over?”

Morrow pondered for a second. “My guess would be a few hours, unless we can speed it up somehow.” He glanced at the screen, then tapped a few keys. “Right, that should help - the ship’s computers are actively allocating resources to the program, and copying it to all systems.”

“Understood; please inform me when the computers can be reinitialised,” Vrakzolfix answered.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll need to – the computers are reinitialising themselves as they’re cleaned, and blocking access from infected code,” Morrow answered, unable to keep a hint of surprise out of his voice. I swear this computer system’s sentient, he thought. “We’ll rejoin you on deck 75 when everything’s running smoothly again. Morrow out.”

***

Three agonizingly long hours later, the computers indicated that the scan had completed, and the virus had been cleared from all systems. Morrow disconnected his lap-top, and thanked the cosmonaut for his unexpected help. The cosmonaut was about to leave when the screen blinked back on, displaying a message in the Insectoid language.

They didn’t have to wonder what the message said for long. Vrakzolfix contacted them immediately via radio. “A message has appeared on all operational computer terminals, to tell us that the Computer-Gods have detected an uninhabited planet upon which the People can live,” he informed them. “The Computer-Gods order immediate evacuation to the surface of Earth, per the primary objectives of this vessel. What has happened, over?”

Morrow was confused for a second. Quickly, he reconnected his lap-top to the vessel’s computers, ready to run another diagnostic. Into his radio, he asked, “What exactly was this vessel designed to do, over?”

“The Builders designed this vessel to take us to the stars, according to the Rituals. That was countless years ago. We travel from star to star, that the ship may drink each new star’s light before we move on,” Vrakzolfix replied. “Some of the Rituals make reference to planets upon which we could live, but we have never found any before, over.”

Continuing to examine the computers in-depth, Morrow commented, “There’s nothing wrong with the system; it seems like this is an ancient program designed for use when a planet conforming to a certain set of variables is found. I would guess its task is to deliver the People safely to a new home, over.”

After a few seconds, Vrakzolfix asked the obvious question. “Why? We are happy on the Pride of the People. We do not need a new home.” He paused for a second. “The ancient legends sometimes mention the Homeworld, where the Builders lived; the stories are old and unreliable, but they say we once lived on a planet with green plants and a blue sky. It is said that the Homeworld was destroyed, and we were sent out by the Builders to make our home in the void itself, over.”

As he scanned through some of the files on the ship’s computer, Morrow hit a password-protected region of memory. Attempting fruitlessly to break the lock, he thoughtfully pressed the transmission switch on his radio. At length, he asked, “Vrakzolfix, are any of the computer’s files supposed to be off-limits, over?”

“None that I know of,” the High Governor answered after a moment. “But I am not an expert on the Computer-Gods. For that, you would have to ask a member of the Spost caste. Spostzolrib is with me now; I will pass the communicator over to him.”

A new voice replaced Vrakzolfix on the radio. “This is Spostzolrib. The protected area holds corrupted information. It was protected several thousand years ago to protect the People from a malfunctioning Computer-God.” He paused for a second before adding, “Over.”

“Well, one of the programs in that area is active, and I think it has to do with that subroutine that’s telling you to evacuate,” Morrow answered. “I can’t shut it down unless I have access, over.”

“I can deactivate it. Are the terminals safe to use?”

“I think so. I’ll monitor you from here, over.” Morrow promised, scanning for active terminals. Eventually finding one, he checked the identity of its user. As he had expected, it was Spostzolrib. The Insectoid was entering a long string of symbols on his touch-screen, presumably to shut the program down. A few seconds later, Spostzolrib logged off, and the errant program deactivated. “Program offline,” he reported into his radio. “The cosmonaut and I will rejoin you now. Morrow out.” Disconnecting his lap-top one final time, Morrow was pleased to note that nothing else had happened on the screen.

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 17 December

The celebration when Morrow and Markov arrived on Deck 75 was incredible. Over half a million Insectoids gathered in the Great Communal Area, and the humans were invited to take a place of honour at the Vrakzol table. Since the humans were not able to partake of the as yet untested Insectoid food and drink, they managed to eat enough of their own food supplies that they would have to ration the rest very strictly, unless Kothari could complete his research within a few days, or another auxiliary craft was sent to Earth.

Music filled the air as a Bisp group found their instruments and began to play their huge repertoire of merry tunes. Maris, ever ready to join in the fun, retrieved her violin from her quarters and played a merry jig with them, keeping up even when Morrow thought he had caught her flagging.

After the party came to its eventual conclusion, Markov left to rejoin his comrades in the Russian shuttle – now successfully docked so that Markov could cross over without his abandoned air hose. As he left, the cosmonaut allowed Vrakzolfix to talk to his ground control. From what the officer on duty told them, Vrakzoltret was delighted with how the humans had responded to this crisis, although she wasn’t too keen on their transportation.

Returning to his cabin, Morrow couldn’t shake an idea that had been bothering him ever since the rogue program had been defeated. Placing his lap-top on the desk, he connected it to the ship’s network, using the Insectoid interface, and returned to the restricted memory area. Punching in the sequence of symbols Spostzolrib had entered, he gained access; being careful not to activate any executables, he scanned for, and found, several large information files – presumably the “corrupt data” Spostzolrib had mentioned.

After copying the data to his own computer, he disconnected so that the ship would not be harmed. He opened the first file, and blanched as the interface translated it into English. This is not good, he thought. If this is what I think it is, then we’re all in trouble. The next few files confirmed his suspicions. I need to tell the others. They need to know exactly what the circumstances are before we act.

Slowly, Morrow closed his lap-top down, and stood. His legs shaking, he walked to the door of his cabin, and opened it. He would have stepped through had a red-shelled Insectoid not charged forward, knocking him to the floor, trapping his arms and legs. Morrow struggled for a moment, but his resistance was futile; the Insectoid had the element of surprise, as well as six limbs and amazing strength. After a moment, the Insectoid released its grip to enable it to pull something that looked very much like a weapon from its bag.

“Be still, be silent and do not try anything,” the Insectoid ordered. Morrow was inclined to obey for the moment. “The information you have found cannot be released to anyone. It is vital for the continued survival of the People that the instructions are not widely known.” The Insectoid, who Morrow finally recognised as Spostzolrib, stepped over to the lap-top, keeping the weapon trained on Morrow. “Is this the device you used to access the data?” Morrow nodded. “I will take it and destroy it, so you cannot confirm what you know with raw facts. This does not need to go further.” Spostzolrib opened the door, turning his weapon away for a split second.

That was all the time Morrow needed. Surging forward, he slammed into the Spost, knocking him onto his back and sending the weapon flying into the corridor. Quickly pressing his advantage, he elbowed Spostzolrib’s face with all his strength. The Insectoid was stunned, but recovered quickly. Rolling onto all six limbs, he once again attempted to charge Morrow, but the human was ready, and leapt upon the Insectoid’s back, clawing at his foe’s face. Spostzolrib curled, loosening the human’s grip, then whirled around and pounced on him.

Morrow rolled reflexively out of the way, leaving Spostzolrib to skid through the still-open door. Grabbing Spostzolrib’s lower limbs before the Insectoid could reach the weapon, he tried to knock Spostzolrib onto his back once more. Flailing wildly, Spostzolrib managed to dislodge the human’s grip, and sprang toward the weapon.


Party to Death

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 16 December

The humans had cheered when Markov reported that the computers were now free of the virus. For a few heart-stopping minutes, they thought it would all be for naught, as Markov relayed Vrakzolfix’s comments to the ground control personnel; a few disbelieving cries of “Uninhabited?!” had been heard, but otherwise a deathly hush descended over the room.

This had meant only that the celebrations were all the more intense when the rogue program had been stopped. Some of the humans punched the air; others yelled even louder than before – Vrakzoltret leapt sideways when one of them screamed right next to her ear. She, too, found herself celebrating inside, but kept her composure outwardly, not wishing to seem over-exuberant – at least until Greene sprang down the stairs he had been standing by, and gripped her hard.

At first, she’d thought she was under attack and pulled away. Surprised, Greene had commented, “I thought you’d be celebrating! They are your people, after all!” and grinned at her. She forced herself to overcome her strict Vrak upbringing, and clasped his hand warmly. Quietly, she told him that she didn’t know what to expect, so had elected to hold her shell.

Greene scoffed at that, asking how Insectoids celebrated back on the Pride. She told him of the great galas and parties that started when the vessel was locked into a planetary orbit; she regaled him with tales of her ancestors, and of the star-falls that had come before this one. Then she had told him of the deep contrast between civilian activities and her military.

She explained the caste system, and that when one was fulfilling the duties of one’s caste, one did not indulge in celebrations. Quick reactions may be necessary, so dulling one’s senses with frivolity would result in an individual becoming casteless. That was the height of disaster for one of the People. It meant that one was a drain on resources, and had to scrounge for food to remain alive.

Then, he had given her an excuse. She had come to observe human life, and to see how humans reacted. How could she gain a good understanding, he reasoned, without participating? She ignored the small part of her mind that rebelled at the idea of having fun whilst on duty, and, when Tamirova had finally given up hope of bringing order to chaos and called for the party to be moved out of the control room, she had followed the departing humans with gusto, offering a brief attempt at a grin of thanks to her host.

Tamirova joined the party a short time later, having ordered the Russian spacecraft to dock with the Pride, and releasing the cosmonauts for some rest and relaxation. Someone had found a few bottles of something called ‘Vodka’, and the Russians were becoming increasingly merry. Regretting once more that she could not partake of the human food and drink, Vrakzoltret put a little extra vigour into her conversations, trying to shut out the part of her that kept wanting her to use this opportunity for research.

Eventually, the party began to wind down. It was even more exhilarating – and a lot less painful – than the aircraft ride, and she was exhausted. Locating Tamirova was no simple task; the Russian seemed to be amid a sea of humans, all of whom looked very much alike to Vrakzoltret’s untrained eyes. Eventually, she found the Major General at the focus of a ring of humans, spinning a yarn so full of holes that she could have driven an auxiliary craft through it, and both it and the craft would have remained intact, despite her inexperience with such vehicles.

Tamirova’s audience did not seem to mind this; instead, they were laughing at the corniest jokes, grinning from ear to ear when Tamirova described in depth the minutiae of a desk-job in an increasingly unintelligible accent, and becoming more and more senseless with each swig of vodka they took. Although she was no Kift, she recognised the signs of intoxication instantly. Clearly, that liquid was extremely potent.

Glancing around, Vrakzoltret saw that Tamirova’s group – which included an apparently drunk Greene – was the only crowd remaining. A few people drifted around the room, or snoozed on the floor of the room the party had taken over, but most of the room’s occupants had disappeared. The room was littered with glasses, bottles and other items that Vrakzoltret could not identify – someone would have to perform a major clean-up operation in here.

Greene drank the remainder of his drink, and spotted the Insectoid skulking by one of the benches. He walked over to her; she nodded as he approached, and offered him a seat. He declined, instead inviting her to take a walk outside, to “get some fresh air”. The Insectoid gladly accepted, and the duo left the room unobserved by their hosts.

“You seemed to be enjoying that story,” Vrakzoltret commented as they left the building. “I could not understand it, but I suppose half of it was in their native language.”

“You’re not alone,” Greene grinned, his voice surprisingly unaffected by the drink he had consumed. “I didn’t understand it either. I think you’d need to be drunk to have half a clue what they were going on about.”

“And you are not drunk?” Incredulous, Vrakzoltret stared at him. Come to think of it, he did look a lot healthier than he had at the bar. Perhaps he might be telling the truth after all.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Pure, fresh water all evening. Can’t go getting drunk on duty, not when I have to fly you back to Oz tomorrow. Don’t worry – you’ll be a lot more comfortable; the Russians have spent today installing a seat that’ll take your physique,” he reassured her as her middle limbs reached absent-mindedly for the joint between her thorax and abdomen. “At least, if they managed to stay sober long enough.” Grinning once more, he added, “It’s a good trick, learning to act drunk. It helps me to stay on the good side of my friends when they’re intoxicated and I’m not.”

She let the conversation hang, taking in the cold winter air, so different from the summer heat of Australia. There was a covering of white on the ground – her research had told her that this was “snow”, or frozen precipitation. A breeze chilled her body, and she at last donned the thick human coat she had been given earlier by one of the many people she had met. Whilst she had no thick coverings of her own to keep the heat in – they weren’t necessary on the Pride – she had been reluctant to use this coat, fearing that it would be extremely uncomfortable, but now she realised exactly why it had been given to her.

After a few moments, Greene broke the silence. “If you’re hungry, the Russians brought your supplies to their barracks; we were supposed to be escorted over there, but with them in such a state, that’s not likely.”

Vrakzoltret realised that she was very hungry; she had eaten on the aircraft, but not since then. She nodded, and took Greene’s proffered arm, following the protocol her observations of human transmissions had taught her. They walked down the snowy path, chatting as they went. Eventually, they turned the final corner, and spotted their destination.

Then, the night exploded. Masked humans leapt from the bushes, brandishing long, thin knives, and rushed at them from all sides. Reacting instinctively, she began to drop to all six limbs, to give her the best possible chance of surviving, but her middle limbs wouldn’t respond. Belatedly, she remembered the coat. With no time to remove it before the humans reached her, she would have to make do with four limbs.

A quick count told her that there were six masked beings surrounding her and Greene. She tried to launch herself at one of them, but, not used to fighting upright, all she managed was a short hop forward. One of the assailants started laughing – a coarse laugh, unfriendly in its tone – and slashed at her with his knife. Struggling to balance, she dropped to her four working limbs and used them to power herself forward, slamming into him with the hard exoskeleton of her head. The charge was slower and less forceful than she would have liked, but the results satisfied her. The assailant flew backward, landing in the snow.

Greene had chosen the same moment to drop to the ground and roll sideways, coming up next to a second attacker. Thinking quickly, the attacker leapt back, aiming a knife-thrust at the Australian. He would have lacerated Greene’s chest, had Vrakzoltret not realised what was going on and risen from below him, thrusting the weapon out of his grasp. Grabbing the knife, she slammed the hilt of it into the human’s face. She did not allow herself the luxury of watching him fall; instead, she sought out the next biggest threat.

By that point, the remaining four attackers had spread out enough that if one of them were attacked, the other three could defend them with their knives; undaunted, Vrakzoltret swung the knife at the nearest enemy, aiming for his head. As she connected, one of the remaining three assailants threw a blade at her side. The knife ripped through the coat and burrowed into her middle-right arm. Screaming in pain, she whirled to face the marksman and slashed with her own weapon, dislodging the one that had maimed her at the same time.

The attacker went down, bleeding profusely from the head wound she had just caused. Vrakzoltret knew without looking that he would not survive. As she rounded on the final assailants, she spotted Greene scrapping with one of them, successfully moving fast enough to prevent the last attacker from seeing him well enough to take him out. As Greene’s opponent landed punch after punch in an attempt to pacify him, Greene began to flag. Before her ally was too badly injured to keep moving, Vrakzoltret leapt on the unoccupied attacker, who had not noticed that his friends had lost their fight.

Caught by surprise, the human fell into the snow, losing his knife. Vrakzoltret was able to pin his arms and legs down, and used her head to knock him unconscious. She glanced over at Greene, to see how he was faring. He was losing badly; several gashes ran the length of his face, which was bruised and puffy. Without assistance, he would perish.

Quickly, the masked man gained the upper hand over Greene, trapping his arms and legs against the snow and retrieving his knife. Vrakzoltret geared up for the trick that had worked so many times before, and started rushing toward her assailant. She was finally getting used to this method of fighting; her remaining mid-arm was no longer reflexively struggling to balance her. As she ploughed into Greene’s assailant, knocking him flying, she clamped her upper hands down on his throat.

Greene groaned as he regained consciousness, aching in areas he didn’t even know existed. The last thing he had seen was Vrakzoltret disposing of the assailant he had been trying to avoid. He was pleased to note that the assailant was now unconscious on the ground, Vrakzoltret standing over him – though she seemed to be bleeding profusely from her coat. As he watched, there was a flash of steel from behind him, and a knife appeared in her other side, causing her to spin, wielding two knives. Alas, that was as far as she got before she collapsed from her wounds.

Pushing himself to his feet, Greene looked around, and spotted the first assailant, now fully recovered, carrying a second knife, apparently taken from a fallen comrade. As the man spun to face the Australian, Greene managed to dive to the side, grabbing one of the assailants’ knives. He brought it around and threw it before the attacker could aim his own weapon. As a blood stain appeared on the man’s knife-toting shoulder, causing him to drop the weapon, Greene collapsed once more.

***

Tamirova was the first to notice the absence of Vrakzoltret and Greene. When none of her staff could remember them leaving, she organised them into search-parties. Her group would head for the barracks, in case they had decided to find their way there unaided. Grabbing a thick duffel coat, she led five of her staff along the path they were most likely to have taken. As they neared the barracks, they heard an angry hissing from around the corner.

“That was Vrakzoltret!” One of the soldiers was quick off the mark, and raced round the corner. He skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding a patch of ice, his jaw dropping at the sight that met his eyes. On the floor lay a bloodied Vrakzoltret and Greene, along with six masked men, with various injuries and contusions. Apparently, the Insectoid and Australian had put up quite a fight before collapsing. A brief glance told him that the men were not supposed to be at Bolshevo. Calling to his squad, he checked for Greene’s pulse; finding a weak beat, he moved on to Vrakzoltret. It was clear that the Insectoid had been gravely wounded.

A rescue helicopter arrived on the scene minutes after the squad had tied up the intruders. Two stretchers were brought out, and the barely-breathing forms of Greene and Vrakzoltret were taken aboard. A security force would arrive in the morning to take the prisoners, but until then, Tamirova locked them in a makeshift prison. Then, she set about composing a message to the Australians.

***

Interlude

Vrakzoltret had known pain, but never had she floated in a sea of the stuff. Her joints were aching, her body would not respond, and her heart was tearing at the thought that she might die alone, surrounded by aliens. She felt her life begin to slip away, but grabbed the tendrils with all her might; she had to survive. The pain threatened to loosen her grip, but she fought back, feral instincts taking over. As she drifted, she saw visions of the People and of the humans, side-by-side. She tried to reach out for them, begging them to help, but they would not respond.

The sea of pain washed over her prone body once more as she glimpsed Greene in the visions; he, too, was surrounded by the sea, but he did not respond to her attempts to attract his attention. She tried once more to move, but again, she could not. Crying again for help, she realised that her voice would not work. But her throat was not sore; she bore no ill effects of speaking the human tongue for so long. This much, she knew, as she strained to rise from the agony she was experiencing.

Just as she began to lose the capability for rational thought, she imagined she heard a human call her name. Unable to look round or respond, she prayed to the Computer-Gods that the human would find her – would save her from this torture. She thought, keppaks later – or was it lasaks, poraks, or even Cycles? – that she was in motion, but the world was black and silent.

Finally, a light appeared in the darkness, and Vrakzoltret found she was able to move all six of her limbs, even the two that had been trapped and, consequently, injured. Delightedly, she raced after the light, allowing it to draw her in. As she got closer, the sea stopped washing over her; she was leaving the world of pain, becoming something unknown to her… perhaps it was good, perhaps not, but it was, at the moment, preferable to the pain.

Revelation of the People

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 17 December

As Spostzolrib reached for his weapon, one of the humans’ cabins opened. He ignored it, focusing on preventing Morrow from revealing the Secret. As his hand closed on the weapon, he realised it was no longer there. Searching desperately, he looked up, and found himself staring into the business end of his gun, which was in the hands of Dr. Paola Garcia, the human linguist.

“I assume this will kill at close range,” Garcia said coldly. “I would not recommend moving.” Without turning her gaze from the Spost, she punched Vrakzolfix’s door-chime, and touched the fingerprint reader. “Want to explain why you were attacking my team-mate?”

Spostzolrib said nothing. Behind him, Morrow was rising from where he had fallen, but – wisely in the circumstances – he did not try to circle Spostzolrib and join Garcia. After a few seconds, the door to Vrakzolfix’s quarters hissed open, and the High Governor walked out.

The Governor was speechless for a moment, before turning to Garcia. Trying to keep the surprise from showing in either his shell or his voice, he asked what he thought was the most expedient question. “What has occurred?”

“I came out of my quarters because I thought I heard some unusual noise,” Garcia replied. “These two were fighting; Spostzolrib was about to grab this weapon and use it, from what I could see.” She motioned for him to stand, certain that he would not attack anyone with the High Governor present.

“That is an old Red Five pistol,” Vrakzolfix commented. “I thought they were taken out of service some time ago!” He took the weapon from Garcia. “Where did you get this, and why were you about to use it on the humans?” The Spost elected to keep his silence. “Very well, we shall have to put you in Incarceration for assault on an ally.” He glanced at Morrow. “Until we discover what happened, I have to incarcerate you as well.” The human nodded in understanding. “Perhaps you could give a report of what happened to the guards for me?”

Spostzolrib saw his chance. As the High Governor turned his attention to the human, he leapt forward, knocking Vrakzolfix onto his back, and head-butted him in the exposed midriff. Vrakzolfix groaned, and released the gun; Spostzolrib grabbed it and rolled away into open space, where he could see the whole corridor. “Move and die,” he invited them, grabbing the lap-top computer from where it had skidded to a halt. For good measure, he fired a shot over Morrow’s head, and backed around the corner, hitting the emergency bulkhead release. A wall of thick metal slid across the corridor, completely blocking it off.

Vrakzolfix stood shakily on all six limbs, and looked sorrowfully at the emergency bulkhead. “We have to contact someone and get out of here,” he said, making for his room. “The Computer-Gods-”

“The computers are under control of the Spost,” Morrow broke in. “I was about to come and tell you some of what I found in the Restricted Section, but Spostzolrib attacked me before I got out of my quarters. Using the computers to alert people will only draw the attention of the Spost, and get us killed.”

“I cannot believe the Spost would do something like this. They are pacifists! They lead our entire belief system!” Vrakzolfix turned to face Morrow. “Besides, there is no other way out of here!”

“The Spost have an ancient secret to hide. It dates back millions of years, to the first time the People found a habitable planet.”

“THIS is the first time!” Vrakzolfix yelled, red-shelled.

“I don’t doubt you think that. All records were purged, except for some flags in the computer’s operating system so that the Spost could divert the ship if ever they returned.” Morrow sat down, and waited for Garcia to do the same. “I only opened a few files, so I don’t know everything that happened, but from what I could gather, the ship tried to decant its occupants onto what it thought was an uninhabited planet. Most of the People had made their home on the ship, and didn’t want to leave, but they saw it as their duty and prepared to use the lifeboats and auxiliary craft to land.

“Some of the People – the Spost chief among them - were less duty-oriented; they staged a rebellion, killing the rulers and sealing off the old Government Sector. Their allies – the Vrak – formed a militia, and imposed their rule on the ship. The programs designed to help find the People a new home were blocked by passwords, and the computers were locked down so that only a select few – the Spostzol – could access critical systems. It was decided that the ship’s original mission should never become known, so that the feuds could not start again. The Spost and Vrak clans killed all the adults, bringing the larvae up to fulfil various tasks.

“For example, the children of the Kift were trained as medics; the Vrak, who had been such great military allies to the Spost, became the rulers and soldiers, responsible for the day-to-day welfare of the ship. The Spost ruled from behind the scenes, creating Rituals from the old military regulations.”

“It sounds like the Spost created themselves in the image of the Computer-Gods,” Vrakzolfix commented. “But why was this information left behind? Surely there was always a risk that it would be discovered?”

Morrow nodded. “And so it has. On several occasions, the information was mistakenly released, but the mysticism the Spost created around the computers that ran the ship was such that any attempt to go exploring beyond one’s bounds was met with incarceration. Anyone who dared to tell what they had seen was treated as insane.

“The records were kept just in case another habitable planet was ever found. The Spost knew at the time that their passwords might not hold the hard-wired programs back, so they passed the secret on within their own clan through the ages. They kept the People from discovering their bloody past by locking down every possible way into the records, including the Government Decks.”

“I thought they were shut down because of a radiation leak from the engines,” Vrakzolfix commented. “Let me guess – another lie perpetrated by the Spost?” Morrow nodded. “So why have the Vrak not passed similar information down through their families? Surely I should have been aware of this!”

“I can only give conjecture at this point, but I believe that the Spost turned on their allies, deciding that the Vrak were too much of a risk,” Morrow answered. “The leaders of the Vrak were probably slaughtered in their beds; with no leaders, the rest of the clan could not organise itself to repel an attack. The Vrak larvae were never informed by the Spost of what had happened, so…” he shrugged.

“You keep calling us clans, but we are castes now. I assume that along with the other changes, the Spost formed castes from the clans, so they could keep themselves in power?”

“Yes. I didn’t have time for in-depth research, but each clan represented an individual nation on your Homeworld initially. All the clans mingled with each other freely, and every clan had a share in the government. Or, at least, that’s what the Builders intended. Unfortunately, the old rivalries and alliances persisted, albeit suppressed beneath a veneer of false trust.” Morrow’s thoughts returned to Earth for a moment. “That doesn’t bode well for us humans,” he frowned.

“So this mistrust was turned into the class boundaries, and everyone knew their place. Nobody would dare go against the Computer-Gods, or by extension the caste system.” The corridor fell silent for a moment, before Vrakzolfix continued. “The question is, how can we deal with it? We are sealed into the corridor.”

“That’s a good question,” Morrow answered. “In the files, I found some interesting plans that didn’t quite depict the current layout of the ship.” He stood and walked to the wall between cabins 1 and 2. “The High Governor used to have a direct passage from somewhere here to the Government Decks. The Spost sealed it, of course, but if I hunt around…” Turning his ear against the wall, he tapped gently for a few minutes, moving his hand around the gap. Eventually, he stepped back. “There.”

“Fine,” Garcia said. “Now how do we get through? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a wall in the way. It’s not like there’s a panel we can remove to…” She broke off. Morrow was pointing to a small set of circles that looked very much like screws. “Good work. Anyone have a screwdriver?”

“In my quarters,” Morrow answered, going to retrieve his toolbox. “I brought it to use with the walkie-talkies,” he added when he returned. Carefully he examined the screws. They were fairly small, and had been painted over, almost obscuring them. The paint did not worry him too much; the seal could be broken. He just didn’t know what he would find behind the panel.

Selecting a screwdriver from his toolbox, he chiselled at the paint for a minute; old as it was, it came away easily, and he was able to remove first the screws, then the panel. Placing it gently on the ground, he turned to call Vrakzolfix over. He and Garcia had also been busy; Kothari, Maris and Phelps had all been called from their quarters and brought up to speed. Seeing that Morrow was done, Vrakzolfix walked over, examining the buttons that had been revealed by Morrow’s efforts.

The top button of the three was bright red, and Vrakzolfix immediately recognised it as an emergency communications button. The bottom-left was pressed in, so this was the bulkhead release button, leaving the bottom-right button as the bulkhead reset button, which, when pressed, would cause the bulkhead to be drawn up into the roof. Motioning for the humans to stand back, he pressed the button, and was pleased to see the bottom-left button pop out, and the bulkhead begin to move upward.

A few seconds into its climb, it shuddered and stopped. Dropping to all-sixes, Vrakzolfix scooted under the bulkhead, followed by the humans, who were using their knees and hands to move – “crawling,” Garcia told him later. Once they could stand upright, everyone did so, and began to move down the long passage before Vrakzolfix pointed out that no lights were active. Morrow, ever the man of technology, disappeared back the way they had come, and returned a few minutes later with some flashlights. By their light, Garcia shot him an incredulous look.

“Hey, I told you I wanted to show the Insectoid scientists some of our tech,” he grinned. “I didn’t think it’d come in this handy, but since we have them, we might as well use them!”

“Indeed,” Vrakzolfix agreed, taking a torch. “We should keep in motion; if what you tell me is right, you can be sure that the Spost will have rigged something to tell them if that bulkhead is opened.” He led the group down into the bowels of the ship, shining his light ahead of him. The passage eventually levelled out, and they came to a metal door. Feeling for the activation panel, Vrakzolfix waited for the humans to stop at the bottom of the ramp before he opened it.

The room they entered was dilapidated, but recognisable as an administrative office. Several old papers lay in brittle fragments on the wooden table, and a barely-functional computer terminal screen flickered. As Vrakzolfix took a breath, he coughed sharply. The air was incredibly stale – more so than the oldest room that had been unsealed when the ship made Starfall – and millennia-old dust motes were dislodged by the first fresh air they had known in aeons.

“It looks like this was even sealed to the automated repair systems,” Phelps commented. “The air-ducts were apparently blocked – if they were in open air, this paper would be long gone. Not to mention that the stench would be less obvious.” He walked across the dusty floor to the office’s other door. “Now all we need to do is take the ship back from the Spost. Chris, do you have any tricks up your sleeve that we can use?”

Morrow shook his head. “I don’t think so – unless I can access the computer. I might be able to disrupt the Spost’s control, but it’ll take time.” He glanced over at Vrakzolfix. “Unfortunately, time’s the one thing we probably don’t have.”

“They already know where we are; if they’re going to kill us, they can do that whether we have computer access or not. Is that terminal usable?”

“Barely,” Morrow answered. “I can make a few repairs, but I’d prefer a working system, and the interface on my laptop.” He sat down and unplugged the screen, then used his toolbox to reseat some of the wiring. When he replaced the screen, it blinked to life, though at a low contrast. He did not recognise the menu that appeared, but Vrakzolfix was by his side and reading the words into Morrow’s translator within seconds. Selecting the option that Vrakzolfix claimed would allow access to the vessel’s core systems, he punched in the code Spostzolrib had used from memory. A few tense seconds later, the screen changed, showing a list of files within the restricted area – including the antivirus program and a copy of the virus code, and, incredibly, the interface program, which he immediately initiated.

“Right; I’m going to re-release part of the virus into the main system, but I’ll modify it to target terminals with Spost logged in only,” Morrow announced. He began tapping away at the screen. “I have the file; I’m modifying it, and locking out the antivirus program.” After a few minutes of silence, he tapped one last control in satisfaction. “It’s done. The Spost authorisation codes and scans are being deleted – the virus should be finished within ten minutes.”

“We do not have ten minutes,” Vrakzolfix commented as the office door burst open, revealing about seven Spost, all carrying old Red 5 weapons. “We are lucky if we even have one minute.” He ducked as a blast of energy sizzled over his head. “It was a pleasure to encounter you.”

Morrow dove to the ground as the computer console was blasted by another bolt of energy. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he called as the barrage – and the noise – increased drastically. “That console was the only place from which the virus could be stopped.” He launched himself at Kothari, who had frozen in position, saving him from yet another energy blast. “We can’t fight energy weapons,” he yelled. “We need to retreat back up to the cabins!”

“Great idea,” Vrakzolfix called as a blast whizzed past him. “You may proceed,” he invited, gesturing for Morrow to run into the open office to reach the pathway through a hail of energy bolts.

“Good point,” Morrow yelled back. “Time for a DIVERSION!” As he yelled the last word, he thrust the table up and forward toward the doorway, sending the Spost scattering for cover. Without thinking, Morrow rushed after it, leaping and landing atop one of them, pummelling the Insectoid’s head with his torch. As the Insectoid collapsed, Morrow grabbed the weapon and used it to fire shots at the other Spost, who were beginning to return to the doorway. Risking a quick glance into the office, he yelled, “GO!”

“Not without you,” Vrakzolfix responded, leaping the barrier the table had created, and aiming his fists – and his own torch - at the largest Spost. He looked around to see the remaining four humans join him in pressing the attack. With the element of surprise, the humans were able to render their foes unconscious and take possession of the Insectoids’ weapons in short order. A quick count-up immediately alerted Vrakzolfix to a problem, though. “Where is the other one?”

A blast of energy arrived from behind him to answer that question, slamming Vrakzolfix into the ground. The humans turned and fired as one, lifting the last Insectoid – who had held back, drawing the humans into the open – and throwing him into the wall. Kothari knew, despite his poor knowledge of Insectoid biology, that the Spost had died on impact – not even an Insectoid could survive with such a large gap in their chest.

Wrenching his attention away from the horrific sight, he rushed over to Vrakzolfix and checked for a pulse. Finding a weak beat, he tried to massage the High Governor’s heart, but his condition did not improve. Kothari looked up, concern in his eyes. “We have to get him to the Kift-vurrl. He’s lucky to be alive after that blast.”

[RJDiogenes]

I've kind of fallen behind here. I know I've read it before, but I'd like to read it again, especially since there have been revisions.

[Jim Gamma]

Next bit... some heavy rewriting here.
---

Old Wounds Reopened

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 17 December

Canberra woke to a scorching summer’s day; the cloudless sky was a blindingly bright blue, and the grass seemed to wilt by the second. Sunblock, cold drinks and ice cream were the order of the day – and, where possible, plenty of shade. The streets seemed to bake in the unyielding heat-wave, which was only made more intense by the unseasonable humidity.

Samantha had delivered her daughter to school in her air-conditioned car, and was looking forward to a day off spent relaxing with a good book and a few gallons of ice-water. She hadn’t heard from her brother, but that wasn’t unusual when he was on a mission. The details were, naturally, well above her clearance level (being only a civilian nurse), but she suspected it involved the aliens somehow.

Still wearing her sunglasses, she walked out onto the patio, leaving the rear window open in case the phone rang – she cursed the necessity, but she could always be called in to work in an emergency. Angling the parasol to provide a decent level of shade, she reclined on one of the deck-chairs, and picked up her book. Before she could begin reading, however, she heard the doorbell chime.

She put the book to one side, took a quick sip of water, and went back into the house. I’m sure this won’t take long, probably just a door-to-door salesperson, she reassured herself. As she opened the door, the colour drained from her face.

“Mrs. Samantha Davies?”

“Yes – you’d better come in.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the two Air Force officers standing on the doorstep. “We’re really very sorry to disturb you today, but we won’t take too much of your time. I’m Group Captain Rachael Matthews; this is Wing Commander Quentin Hughes.”

Samantha led the two officers through to the lounge, and sat down. She knew what was to come, but she needed to hear it spoken. “Go ahead,” she barely managed to say.

“I regret to inform you that your brother, Flight Lieutenant Paul Greene, has been severely wounded in action whilst on a mission for the Royal Australian Air Force. You will understand that the details of his mission are classified, but I can reveal that he was in Russia at the time.”

This wasn’t what Samantha had been expecting, and it took a few moments for the statement to sink in, and several more seconds before she could speak. Tentatively, she asked, “He’s alive?”

“Yes – although as I said, he was badly wounded. He is in very good hands, and will be flown back to Canberra as soon as he’s able to travel.”

“Thank you for telling me, Group Captain. Is there anything I can do to help? I am a nurse.”

“The best thing any of us can do right now is to hope,” Matthews answered. “We’ll keep you informed of developments.”

Samantha thanked the officers and showed them out, visibly shaken by the information. She knew that Paul’s job was dangerous, but Australia was at peace! Unable to relax, she paced around the lounge, her memory drifting back inexorably to Sydney. Unwillingly, she let it drag her where – and when – she did not want to go.

***

Sydney, Australia, Earth, 5 years ago

Samantha Davies bustled about her small appartment, tidying shelves and bookcases, and getting the place into some semblance of order. The doctors had advised her against too much stressful exercise at this stage in her pregnancy, but she couldn’t bare to let others see an unkempt home, even a cleaning maid. She was about to take a short break, when a sharp buzz announced the presence of a visitor.

The maid’s very early today, she thought, opening the door. Two Air Force officers stood in the corridor, their faces solemn but gentle. One of them stepped forward, showing his ID. “I’m Group Captain Warren Vincent, this is Wing Commander Nicola Stanford; are you Samantha Davies?”

“Yes – what can I do for you?”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.” Samantha ushered them into the cosy living room. “Excuse the mess, you caught me in the middle of cleaning.”

“That’s quite okay, Mrs. Davies. Perhaps we could sit down somewhere?” The captain’s voice had a solemn timbre, Samantha noticed, matching his face.

Clearing some papers from the lounge seats, she sat and motioned for the officers to do the same, bracing herself. Is it Paul or Nick? She didn’t have to wait long.

“Mrs. Davies, I regret to inform you that last night, your husband, Flight Officer Nicholas Davies, was killed in action, defending his squadron from hostile aircraft. The Air Force would like to express its deepest sympathy and condolence on your loss; Officer Davies was a skilled pilot, and a brave hero to all of Australia. He will be sorely missed.”

“Oh God...” was all Samantha could think of to say, tears welling up in her eyes. “Nick’s dead...? How did it happen?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal operational details of Officer Davies’ squadron’s assignment – but your husband’s sacrifice saved his entire squadron, Mrs. Davies.” The Captain paused to let her take this in. “The Air Force provides services to help the families of service personnel killed in action; we’ll make them available to you immediately.”

Gathering her senses, Samantha finally asked, “What about Paul?”

“Pilot Officer Greene?” Samantha nodded. “He’s shaken, but physically unharmed. The entire squadron was extremely upset by Nicholas’ death – he was a dear friend and a trusted colleague colleague to everyone who knew him.”

“Thank you. I... I’d like to be alone for a while,” Samantha said, her voice shaking.

“Of course,” Vincent answered. “We’ll be in touch.”

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 17 December

Samantha found herself clutching the picture of Nick – taken shortly before his squadron had launched on their ill-fated mission – that usually rested on the mantelpiece. A single tear had fallen from her face onto the photo, distorting the image slightly. She found a tissue and dabbed at the liquid, and finally sat down. Tears began to flow freely – though whether from relief that Paul was alive, or from the shock of two officers arriving on her doorstep once more, she couldn’t say. Her memories pulled her back again, this time to her reunion with her brother.

***

Sydney, Australia, Earth, 5 years ago

Paul looked exhausted, Samantha thought as she watched him cross the busy airport lounge. That wasn’t really surprising, considering what he’d been through; it was still only a few weeks since Nick had been killed. Spotting her, he walked over, and pulled her into a tight, wordless hug. The comforting protection that her brother’s hugs used to provide was no longer present, though. Nick was gone – dead – never coming back. Paul couldn’t change that.

After a few moments, he pulled free of her. “How are you holding up?”

“I’d feel better if I knew how it happened.” Paul tried to interrupt, but she raised a hand to stop him. “I know, I know – operational security. Doesn’t make it any easier.” When he didn’t reply, she turned to lead him from the airport. “Let’s go home.”

Samantha’s car was parked nearby, and a short time later, the siblings were inside, on the way to the apartment. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for a few minutes. Paul was the first to speak.

“It should be Nick sitting here, not me,” he breathed. “I swore to you I’d bring him back, and I failed.” It was as though Samantha hadn’t heard – though he knew she had. “You know, I have to go back.”

That got her attention. “Back?”

“To the Air Force. I have a few weeks of compassionate leave – not even the Armed Forces are that harsh – but that’s it. I’m being shipped out again.”

“Paul, no – they can’t!” She had the presence of mind to pull over to the side of the road before she turned to face him. “I’ve lost Nick, I’m not losing you too!”

“I’m a pilot, Sam. It comes with the territory.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “They’ve transferred me to home guard, though.”

“It’s still dangerous.”

“Nowhere near as dangerous as front-line would be. And I’ll be able to write more often to you.” He smiled, though it was empty of humour. “Where else would I go?”

“You could get a job locally, stay in Sydney...”

“Hah! Can you imagine me working in an office? It’d never work – I’m too much of an action person.”

“Yeah, that’s you, all right – all action and no heart.” Bitterly, she pulled back into the road, driving the last few miles in silence.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 17 December

The feud had lasted all of three days, Samantha recalled, with Paul trying his hardest to show that he did indeed have a heart. He’d never left the Air Force – although he sought out assignments as close as possible to his sister and niece. She’d never found anyone to replace Nick, and probably never would; he had been too perfect for that to happen.

The tears finally drying up, she realised that it was past lunchtime, and made herself a quick sandwich. Paul was safe, she told herself – at least, as safe as he could be.

***

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 17 December

Flight Lieutenant Paul Greene drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware even of his own name or what a “Flight Lieutenant” was. Skilled surgeons tended to his physical wounds, but his mind would have to recover on its own. Right now, most of all, he needed rest – and he would get it. Two members of the Russian armed forces stood guard over his room, with a further two protecting his Insectoid companion, and many more throughout the military hospital. He knew nothing of this, of course. All he knew was darkness, silence, and peace.


Diplomatic Agenda

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 17 December

Spostbeltakk had been surprised by the human, but even more surprised when the High Governor himself had charged out of the room and attacked the Spost team with a large, heavy weapon. For an instant, she had frozen, uncertain whether her allegiance was to the Spostzol who had led them here or to Vrakzolfix and the humans. By the time she had decided, she was already unconscious.

She woke slowly, finding herself and her team surrounded by three of the humans, each carrying two guns. Looking around for the Spostzol, she saw her dead in the corner. Red-shelled, she glared at the humans, but made no move to attack. After a few heartbeats, the human closest to her stunned her by speaking in an excellent intonation of the Language of the People.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” it – she? – told her. “I am Dr. Paola Garcia. You are now prisoners of the High Governor; when he is restored to health, you will be tried for assault.”

“You killed the Spostzol,” Spostbeltakk noted. “It is you humans who have broken into this area, confused the High Governor and attacked the Computer-Gods. I think it is you who shall face trial.”

“We hacked the computers because Spostzolrib tried to kill us,” a second human said via a translation unit. “He is the one who has spread a web of lies, as have his ancestors for millennia, and you, as Spost, are a part of that lie. Vrakzolfix will expose your deceit once he awakens, and the Spost will be outcasts.”

Spostbeltakk turned her head toward the second human, but made no other movement. After a second, she asked, “How have we lied?”

“Don’t you know? Aren’t all Spost aware of the Great Secret hidden in the depths of the computers?” The human began to step forward, but decided against it. “You have withheld vital information from the People for aeons; you have allowed this ship’s mission to go unfulfilled ever since the Great Purge.”

“Great secret? Great purge?” Incredulous, Spostbeltakk rose to all six limbs, but ducked back down when Garcia reasserted her presence. “I have not heard of these terms, and I do not understand what you mean. The ship’s mission has always been to provide a home for the People as far back as the records run.”

“You claim you don’t know of the hidden files in the computer, or of the true reason for the sealing of the old Government Zone? Do you expect me to believe you would enter this area if you thought it was filled with lethal radiation?”

“We do as the Spostzol command,” Spostbeltakk answered. “They deserve nothing less. They perform tasks that the Vrak know nothing about; they keep the Computer-Gods pleased, and they interpret their will. I know we shall die if we remain here for more than a porak, but I sacrifice my life to help the Computer-Gods.”

“We’ve been here for one and a half,” Garcia told her, converting rapidly between time systems. “And yet, we are neither dead nor ill. Apparently, the radiation is harmless.”

Spostbeltakk was silent. Her thoughts raced as she tried to make sense of what the humans were saying. She knew that they had to be lying, but could see no flaw in their argument; why were they still alive, if the radiation was really as bad as the Spostzol claimed? The Spostzol received instructions directly from the Computer-Gods, then passed them to the People. Surely if this area were usable, the Computer-Gods would make it available? If they had not, the only answer was that the Spostzol or the Computer-Gods had made an error. The Computer-Gods were infallible, though. Either they were not Gods, or the Spostzol were lying about their instructions.

Unable to reconcile this internal debate, and without a Spostzol to turn to, she had only one option. She would have to try diplomacy. “Either the Computer-Gods are mistaken, which is not possible, or the Spostzol have misinterpreted the Computer-Gods’ instructions. Clearly, at least some of what you say is true.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I still do not believe that the Spostzol would deliberately lie to the People, though.”

“Perhaps if you contacted them and gave them the information, then?” The second human motioned for her to stand. “Paola, Edward, keep an eye on the rest of them for a moment.” The other two humans inclined their heads briefly, but did not glance away from the remaining Spost, wary of an attack.

“I cannot; my access has been destroyed by your computer virus,” Spostbeltakk answered. “If I touch a Computer-God Terminal, it will destroy itself.”

“I shall contact Spostzolrib and inform him that you wish to talk with him.” The human motioned for her to walk ahead by a few paces. “Lead me to the nearest terminal, and stay upright or I will shoot.”

Keeping just out of range of any attack her prisoner could devise, the human followed her down the corridor. Eventually, they came to a small room with a number of computer terminals – one of the old Government Offices, Spostbeltakk knew. Most of the terminals were dead, but one still flickered gently in the corner. The human motioned for her prisoner to cross over to it, then followed her.

Before pressing anything, the human said, “I am about to place a certain amount of trust in you, because I know that attacking me would get you nowhere. If you returned on your own to my colleagues, you would be shot on sight, so your only hope is to tell Spostzolrib of your predicament. However, you need me to accomplish this. Decide what you will ask, and how you will phrase your questions.”

Touching the communication option on the computer screen, the human contacted Spostzolrib. A few seconds later, the screen blinked to a live view of the Priest’s office. Startled, Spostzolrib reached for his own terminal’s controls, but thought better of it. Angrily he asked, “Maris! What have you done to Spostzolfran?”

Stepping into view, Spostbeltakk answered, “Spostzolfran is dead, killed by an energy blast. I command the squadron now.” Not waiting for Spostzolrib’s response, she continued, “We have trapped the humans, and we are about to kill them, but I felt the need to inform you that no radiation is present. We have not become ill after one and a half poraks of exposure.”

“Kill the humans and return,” Spostzolrib answered, barely missing a beat. “I will explain the radiation’s absence when you arrive.”

“Of course, High Priest,” Spostbeltakk intoned, motioning for the human to deactivate the terminal. “I think I already know the answer,” she commented, grabbing the gun from the human and blasting the terminal. “You speak the truth, human. We must hurry; Spostzolrib already knows our location.” Handing the gun back to the human, she led the way back to the human-held stretch of corridor.

Garcia and Phelps nodded to Maris as she escorted the Insectoid back into their midst. Phelps raised a questioning eyebrow, indicating Spostbeltakk with his weapon; the Insectoid had stopped just short of the other five Spost, and was speaking rapidly to them.

Maris nodded in response. “She didn’t like what Spostzolrib had to say. I think they’re on our side now, or they will be once Spostbeltakk finishes her explanation.”

Turning to face the humans, Spostbeltakk nodded. “They agree that the Spostzol have lied to us willfully. We will help you to reach the Computer-Gods’ Chambers, where you will be able to release this information, as well as our testimony that the records are true.” When the humans nodded their acceptance, she continued, “We will pass through some hidden passages that only the Spost know. The Spostzol would not think to guard them, for they do not believe we would lead you there. However, we will have to be silent in case.”

Motioning for her squadron to stand prone, befitting their entry into the holy halls, Spostbeltakk led them to the nearest transit cubicle. Before the humans could protest, she explained, “If Ambassador Maris controls the lift, the Spostzol will think that I simply use her to return, and that I have killed you. They will eventually realise that we have turned against them, but we should be in the Chambers by then, and no Spost will bring weapons into the Chambers.”

The lift arrived at that moment. Once they were aboard, Spostbeltakk told Maris what their eventual destination was, watching her punch it in confidently. The lift sped upward, then shot lengthways along the ship. Eventually, the doors opened onto a large chamber, filled with thousands of leafy plants of varying colours and descriptions. An arboretum, Garcia guessed, possibly a food store. The room was hot and humid, and the humans found themselves wishing for a cold glass – no, make that a bucket, Garcia thought – of water.

Walking almost silently, the humans crossed the incredibly hot room, led by the Insectoids, and arrived at a gigantic stone door. Spostbeltakk reached forward and placed her hand in the centre, and it moved aside with a grinding, scraping noise. Silently, she directed two of her team to take the rear and shield the humans from behind. Another two were ordered outside to check that there were no other Spost in sight. When the all-clear was given, she led the humans and remaining Insectoid from the room. After a minute, all nine of the group had passed through the portal, and Spostbeltakk pressed a panel on the wall. More grinding marked the closure of the door.

Leading them along a maze of corridors, Spostbeltakk listened carefully for approaching Spost. Whenever one was heard, she halted, and waited until the sounds passed. There were a few close calls, but eventually the group arrived at a nondescript black metallic door undiscovered. Carefully, Spostbeltakk pushed the door open, obscuring the view from the room with her body. After a moment, she declared the room to be empty and walked in.

The room was large and well-ventilated, with several desks and computer terminals dotted around. “The master control terminals are here,” she said, ushering the humans forward.

As the humans entered, the room’s other three doors sprang open, and some 24 Spost, led by Spostzolrib, raced into the room, weapons aimed at the humans. Recognising that neither retreat nor fighting was an option, the humans threw down their weapons, and raised their hands.

“Spostbeltakk, you claimed to be in control of the humans.” Spostzolrib’s shell was bright red. “There are three of them and six of you. You should be able to overpower any resistance. Clearly, you were never in control, and you have turned against the Computer-Gods.” He moved forward. “You and your new allies will be killed here and now.”

Spostbeltakk closed her eyes as he raised his weapon. The whine as it discharged was loud, but she felt no pain. Waiting for death to claim her, she prayed to the Computer-Gods to keep her Life Partner and her friends safe from harm. Wondering why the blast seemed to be echoing through her exoskeleton, and why she still felt very much alive, she opened her eyes.

The room was ablaze with energy bolts. The humans were firing on the Spostzol, having reclaimed their weapons, but the Spostzol were more concerned with the thirty Vrakzol who had just crashed their way into the room. Unsure which way to turn, she felt a tug on her middle right limb; one of her team-mates was trying to pull her behind a computer terminal, to safety. Recognising that both the Vrakzol and the Spostzol would see her as an enemy, she ducked to all-sixes as a blast whizzed passed her, striking one of the Spostzol. Blasts whizzed around her for what seemed like poraks, but eventually, the room fell silent.

Risking a glance from under the table, she saw four humans, plus around ten remaining Vrakzol. The Spostzol, she noted, were either dead or unconscious on the floor. Slowly, she led her squadron from under the table, rising to her full height and holding her arms wide, showing she was unarmed. Instantly, one of the Vrakzol whirled to face her, but one of the humans, whom she did not recognise, shoved his weapon aside.

“They’re on our side, Vrakzolfutt,” Garcia explained. “They must have ducked out of the way when the fighting began.” She glanced over at the Spostbel, who nodded. “I think some explanations are needed all round. How did you know we were here?”

“I can answer that,” Maris answered, holding up a small box with a cylinder sticking out of one end. “When Chris and Sanjay took Vrakzolfix to the Kift-vurrl, they gave me a radio. I activated the transmitter when Spostbeltakk explained her plan, hoping that they would know what we were doing. I’m guessing they must have decided to give us a diversion, and contacted Vrakzolfutt.”

“You are correct,” Vrakzolfutt answered. “Vrakzolfix woke up on the way to the Kift-vurrl, and ordered us to give you the time you needed. When we got to the Chamber Entrance, none of the Spost were around, so we proceeded to the chamber. We caught the Spostzol as they charged into the room, and followed them in. Vrakzolfix wanted to join us, but he and Morrow required rest.”

“That answers my next question,” commented Garcia. “I’m guessing the Spostzol had access to one of our radios as well, and set up the ambush here.” Gazing around the room, she noticed that Spostzolrib was not among the bodies. “We also have a problem. Spostzolrib has escaped.”

“He must have run during the fighting,” Kothari commented. “We’ll deal with him when we have to, but for now, I suggest we unlock that secret area.” Moving to one of the few terminals that had not been blasted by the weapons-fire, he logged in, noting with satisfaction that the computer automatically initiated the interface program. “Chris told me what to do before I came down here, but I could use some help interpreting the menu.”

Spostbeltakk stepped forward. “I will assist you,” she offered. At his nod, she moved to his side, and began to guide him through the menus.

A few minutes later, Kothari looked up from his terminal. “I’m into the command controls, and I’m about to unlock the system. I’ve disabled some of the programs so that we don’t have the panic we had last time.” Pressing another button, he said, “The information is now unlocked.”

“Please flag it for the People to read,” Vrakzolfutt replied. “Can you also disable the virus that stops the Spost from accessing the computers?”

“They are already disabled,” Kothari commented, surprised. “However, their command codes are still inactive, fortunately.” He turned to face the group again. “I think that Spostzolrib will have only his fellow Spostzol to help him from now on. We should expect him to retaliate in force.”

As he spoke, the radio crackled to life. “Command centre to Vrakzolfutt. We have just been attacked by a large group of Spostzol, but we had been warned to expect such an event. Was this a Preparedness Ritual?”

”That will be Spostzolrib,” Vrakzolfutt commented. Into his own radio, he said, “It was not. I suggest you read the information flagged for everyone to view, over.”

“Of course, Deputy Governor,” the voice replied. “The remaining Spostzol escaped in the direction of the Auxilliary Craft Hangars; we have just been informed that they have launched toward Earth. Our remaining Auxilliary Craft would take one-third of a porak to prepare, if we wish to pursue them.”

“No. Let them go… just track their course, and alert Earth to the current situation. We have more important concerns. Vrakzolfutt out.” For a brief moment, he wondered if he had made the right choice. The People would have enough to contend with without the Spostzol on the loose, but he did not want another fire-fight when everyone was so badly in need of rest.


Interview with an Alien

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 17 December

Vekkbeltann, Vrakbelstum and Kelkbelkrad secured themselves inside the human vehicle – a limousine, the Temporary Team Leader recalled. She refused to allow the concern she felt to reach her shell; instead, she concentrated on the forthcoming interview. The humans would expect five of the People, but only three would make an appearance. The official response, if she was asked, was that Vrakzoltret and Kiftzolkrup had both travelled to Rus-Sya to help investigate the silence of the People; the Earth’s news organisations had already published knowledge of the event in great depth, although they did not know all the details.

The news had come at the start of First Sakorak, when her team had been completing the Cleanliness and Sustenance Rituals, that Vrakzoltret had been injured. Judging by the Prime Minister’s reluctance to give too many details, she imagined that a speedy reaction was required; she knew that Kiftzolkrup would be told all he needed to know during the flight from Oss-Trel-Ya. Confirming that her charges were strapped in, she informed the vehicle’s pilot – no, driver, she reminded herself – that they were ready to proceed.

The limousine pulled away from the house that was serving as the Insectoids’ base of operations, driving to a studio in Canberra itself, from which a link-up would be created to Channel Ten’s Melbourne studios, which would be used to conduct the interview. Vrakbelstum watched out of his window as the limousine pulled up outside the studio. Very few humans were about, and those within eyesight seemed more concerned with hurrying along the road than stopping to stare at the spectacle of three six-limbed beings walking into the studio, led by their human driver. He was thankful for this; attracting a crowd could have caused a major security problem.

The Insectoids were met at the door by a fairly tall human, who smiled to them pleasantly. “Welcome to Channel Ten,” he said. “I’m Matthew Amis; I usually work as a receptionist here, but I’ve been asked to guide you to the studio where you’ll be interviewed. Please, follow me.”

Amis led the way through a maze of passageways into a large room with what Vekkbeltann guessed was a sofa, modified so that the Insectoids could perch on it comfortably; there was a gap between the back and the seat for the Insectoids to place their abdomens. The human method of sitting was strange to the researchers, who did not normally allow their legs and shell to take their weight. Vekkbeltann eagerly took her place when Amis asked them to “try it for size”, before Vrakbelstum could point out any security concerns, and pronounced it “very comfortable”.

“Glad you like it,” Amis answered her, grinning. “We’d have got you stools but it would’ve been hard to find any that looked good in this room.”

Seeing Vrakbelstum’s reluctance etched into his now-green shell, Vekkbeltann motioned to the cushion next to her. “I am certain there will be no need to react rapidly,” she told him. “There are plenty of human guards here.” Pushing up with the backs of her legs and forward with her thorax, she stood once more. “Besides, if we must exit quickly, it is easy to extract ourselves from this contraption.” As her colleagues joined her uncertainly, she added, “I have wanted to attempt this posture since we viewed it in Earth’s transmissions. I almost wish we had not had half a planetary orbit for you humans to work out how our furniture is designed around our bodies.”

“I don’t think I’d like to try those stools you use,” Amis answered. “They look as though they’re difficult to stand up from.”

“Not when you have six limbs to push with,” Vekkbeltann answered.

“No, I guess not,” Amis grinned. “Anyway, two minutes ‘til you’re on. That screen over there will activate so you can see what they’re doing in the main studio; here’s some earpieces so you can hear them. We’re sending the signal through your translators – don’t ask me how it works, I’m not a techie – so you and the presenters will understand each other.”

“That is most kind,” Kelkbelkrad told him. “I assume we will not require our own translators, in that case?”

“No, not unless someone here needs to talk to you, but we won’t interrupt during the interview unless it’s an emergency.” As Amis spoke, the screen on the back wall activated. “The one on the left is Kenneth; the other one is Sally. Your mikes’ll be turned on so you can talk to the studio when they welcome you to the show.” He left the room, grinning.

“Welcome back,” Kenneth was saying. “Next up, we have the first ever interview with the Insectoids who landed on Earth recently.” He paused for a moment. “Hello and welcome to the show, it’s great to have you with us – though I thought there were five of you! You’ll have to excuse us, but we can’t tell who’s who easily, so could you introduce yourselves?”

The three team-members introduced themselves, then Vekkbeltann added, “Vrakzoltret and Kiftzolkrup send their apologies, but they cannot attend this interview due to other commitments.”

“Yeah, we heard about what Supernova did to the Pride of the People,” Sally answered. “Not all humans are nasty enough to do something like that, though, so I hope it won’t colour your impression of us too much.”

“If we thought all humans were malicious, we would not have landed,” Vrakbelstum pointed out. “I think perhaps we should have asked the Spost to provide a ‘wall of fire’ for our computer-gods.”

“Wall of fire…?” Dave looked puzzled, if Vekkbeltann was any judge. “Oh, a firewall? Yeah, that might’ve been a good move. Still, we live and learn.”

“And the aim of our visit is to learn, after all,” Kelkbelkrad responded, rubbing her mid-arms together.

Vekkbeltann was pleased with how her team was reacting to the human interview. This was an unknown event on the Pride, since the Computer-Gods contained all the information the People could ever require.

Sally quickly changed the subject of the discussion. “The one question everyone’s been asking around the world is, why land in Australia? I mean, why not elsewhere? This country only has five cities, and lots of desert. Personally I love it here, but there are more logical choices of landing zone, surely.”

“It was precisely the lack of cities that made this country the best place for us to land,” Vrakbelstum answered. “It was easier to clear the airways around Canberra than upset large parts of more populous countries, and we made contact with Australia before any other country, so the decision was also made to honour that contact.”

“I don’t want to go into a discussion about orbital mechanics, because I’m no physicist,” Kenneth commented, “but isn’t it easier to launch and land spacecraft from the equator because that’s where the planet’s spin is easiest to deal with?”

“The computer-gods compensated automatically for that; we would never even try to understand how it is done,” Kelkbelkrad answered.

“Computer… gods? That’s twice you’ve said that…” Uncertainty etched into his face, Kenneth peered at the screen. “You treat technology as a superior being?”

“They are gods – at least to us,” Vekkbeltann answered. “They cater for every need we have, they contain and disseminate all knowledge, and see and hear everything aboard the Pride.”

“I see, so you’ve never had to repair them?”

“They obtain the materials they need from space-rocks in each star system we visit; the Spost know more of this than we do, but I am told that they maintain themselves, much like a living being.”

The interview then moved on to questions from the show’s viewers. The details discussed surprised the Insectoids, ranging from favourite foods, the names of which no human would recognise, to how an Insectoid family was constructed. Vekkbeltann was aware of the human predilection for existing in family units, so she answered that question herself.

“Larvae are raised in a special Care Unit by members of our Brak caste,” she explained. “Often one Brak will take care of up to fifty larvae, though you should remember that the People do not require as much contact with adults to care for them as humans do,” she continued, forestalling the surprise she knew the humans would express.

Confused, Sally asked, “So if you don’t raise your young in family units, where do you raise them?”

“Our young are raised in brakassaks, specific to individual castes – so a young Vrakzol will be raised and educated in a Vrakzolbrakassak, and a Spostzol in a Spostzolbrakassak”, Vekkbeltann answered. “Our only contact with other castes is through the Brak who tends us. When we undergo the Morph, we are taken away from the brakassak to an academy, where we learn how to be a member of our caste. We could theoretically find out who our biological parents are, but there is rarely a need to do so.” She paused for a moment. “The Brak cater for hundreds of larvae each year, and it takes about a year between birth and Morph. Our larvae are much the same as our adults, but with no outer shell and no limbs; these grow during the Morph. Also the joints between body segments are not as pronounced.”

“Then that makes each Caste like one big family,” Kenneth surmised.

“Not quite – none of us feels familial connections, except to our Life Partners. When we are born in the Brakassak, we are completely unaware of ourselves as individuals, so such familiarity cannot form. Only when two of the People decide to become life partners will such a bond be created.”

“That sounds like some Earth insect species,” Sally pointed out. “The insect colony looks after its young as a group, rather than forming parent-child or sibling attachments which could interfere with how the colony functions.” She listened briefly to an earpiece. “It looks like that’s all we have time for at the moment; thanks for coming in to talk to us.”

“It was our pleasure,” Vekkbeltann answered. “We hope you have learned as much from this as we have.” The Insectoids stood and clasped their hands at arm’s length. “May your cycle be pleasant and joyous,” Vekkbeltann intoned.

“Have a great stay on Earth,” Kenneth answered. “We’ll be back right after these messages,” he said for the benefit of the viewers. With that, the screen shut off.

Amis poked his head into the room, grinning. “Great interview,” he told them as his body followed his head. “The mikes are off now, you can talk freely. I’m happy to give you a tour of the premises if you want, but I imagine you have a lot of research to do.”

“Unfortunately we must decline,” Vekkbeltann answered. “You are correct that we must leave to begin our research. We have planned to return in two Cycles to research human media, however.”

“Great – you’ll really enjoy it! I’ll take you back to your limo, then?”

Vekkbeltann nodded, and the team followed him back through the studio to their car.

[Jim Gamma]

OK, so I deleted a chapter and rearranged some stuff in the next few chapters since Rick saw it. Should still make sense. The next section has proven to be the most annoying to write, so constructive criticism would be extremely useful.

Rapid Response

Human Freedom Brigade Russian Headquarters, 17 December

“We lost six of our warriors to one insect and one human,” the head of the Bolshevo Cell of the Human Freedom Brigade growled at his underling. “The insect had two of its arms held back! How did this happen?”

Nervously, the agent glanced around the office, looking for somewhere to hide. “The human was highly trained.” The agent gulped. “And we, um, underestimated the Insectoid’s ability to fight.” Ducking in case his boss threw something, he added, “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right it won’t,” snarled the boss. “We will regroup for now; our agents will be needed to repel the next invasion force.” Angrily, the shadowy figure slammed a finger onto a button on the equally dark desk. “I suggest you leave. NOW!”

The agent jumped at the last word, and rushed out through the door. Composing himself, he nodded at the boss’ two bodyguards. As the boss’s finger lifted from the button it had held down, the agent heard the door lock once more, and left the makeshift headquarters, furtively returning to his cover job.

Inside the small room that served as the hub of activity for the Russian cell of the Freedom Brigade, the boss breathed deeply, allowing the rage to ebb away slowly. Calling one of the two bodyguards in, the boss gave some explicit instructions; nodding, the small yet strong man left the room and began to tail the agent who had just left.

Certain he was being followed, the agent doubled back on himself and ducked into a small pathway between a fence and a hedgerow. Quickening his pace as he heard what sounded like footsteps behind him, he risked a brief glance into the shadows. Although he saw no-one, the uneasy feeling continued to gnaw at him as he turned out of the narrow pathway onto a short lane, just a few hundred yards from the safety of the main road.

The agent took his last breath as he felt something sharp slide across his throat. Before he died, he had time to see the bodyguard’s gloved hand as it withdrew, carrying a bloodstained knife. The conclusion of the police would be instant: the agent had taken his own life using the knife he had carried from home that morning.

Satisfied, the bodyguard withdrew back into the shadows and returned to the headquarters, to stand guard over the boss, or to act, should the boss require it.

***

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 17 December

Kiftzolkrup stood back from Vrakzoltret’s hospital bed, and announced, “She is stable. For now, anyway. How long she will remain that way, I do not know.” He turned to the human doctor. “How is Lieutenant Greene?”

“Out of immediate danger,” the human answered. “Fortunately, we had enough blood of his type to replace what he lost, and despite the superficial flesh wounds, none of his vital organs were wounded. He needs rest.”

“It will not be easy for Vrakzoltret when she wakes up,” Kiftzolkrup commented. “She seems to have borne the brunt of the attack. If I had a better idea of how some of your medication worked…”

“Not even we can prevent all ills, Healer,” the human answered. “I think perhaps you did more than we ever could.”

Placing his middle limbs on Vrakzoltret’s bed, he thought about the frenzied activity of the last few poraks. The call had arrived almost a full cycle after Vrakzoltret had departed. The humans could keep Vrakzoltret alive, but only with constant attention; since the Kift was the only expert on Insectoid biology on the planet, he had been rushed to this cold country to see if he could help.

He had immediately located the source of the problem – or, more specifically, problems. Using his basic emergency training for the first time in years, save for the Drill Rituals, he had immediately stemmed the flow of blood and found a suitable drug to dull the pain. Then he had set to work on Vrakzoltret’s worst wounds – the arms. He had worked so very hard to stop the infection, trying everything he could, with the help and advice of the human doctor, Veronika Belaia. Eventually, he had to face simply waiting for his attempts to succeed or fail. Failure, he knew, could mean either death or permanent injury for the Speaker of the People. Without looking at Belaia, he mused, “Yes, but was it enough?”

“It will have to be. Now come, we have worked for hours; we must rest. The nurses will inform us if either of our patients’ conditions change.” Belaia turned to the door, and she walked with the Insectoid out of the emergency ward. “Besides,” she added, “we have to write reports on this.”

“Ah yes, reports. I see that the People are not alone in requiring endless streams of information for our leaders.” Kiftzolkrup nodded to the guards outside the room as two of them fell into step behind him, leaving two to guard Vrakzoltret and Greene. “Do we know who attacked them yet, or why they were selected?”

“The reason behind the attacks, I think, should be clear. Someone doesn’t want your people on Earth, and they took the opportunity to send you a message,” Belaia responded. “If they were after Greene, they could have attacked him separately; they only had to wait for him to exit a building alone. They knew that they had to get Vrakzoltret relatively alone to stand a chance, but she was supposed to be guarded at all times. With the party in full swing, the cosmodrome’s staff relaxed their security, giving the attackers a chance to act.”

“I agree, that appears to be the most likely motive,” Kiftzolkrup answered. “But we still have no suspects.”

“The only people who knew Vrakzoltret would be there were the Australian government, the Russian government and the cosmodrome staff,” Belaia answered. “I wouldn’t like to think that either of the governments could plan something so vile, and I doubt the cosmodrome’s staff would disobey their government so openly.” She sighed. “That means it was probably an outside entity with an agent in one of those bodies, which means we have a spy in our midst.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “I believe it had to be someone in Russia, because a mole in Australia could have acted before Vrakzoltret left the country.”

“That was my conclusion as well,” Kiftzolkrup confirmed. “I am certain that your police will clear this mystery up,” he added. “We have a few of the attackers in prison; they await interviews now, so we should get some more information soon.”

They walked on in silence, until a clatter of footsteps was heard from behind them, followed by a shout of “DOCTOR!” Spinning, Belaia recognised the nurse from the emergency ward. After catching his breath, the nurse managed to speak. “Lieutenant Greene is awake.”

“He shouldn’t be awake yet,” Belaia answered, breaking into a trot, followed by Kiftzolkrup and the nurse. “What happened?”

“He woke sooner than expected,” answered the nurse. “We tried to explain what had happened, where he was… he keeps asking to talk to Vrakzoltret, though.”

Belaia led the way into the ward. Vrakzoltret was still asleep in one of the walled-off cubicles, but Greene was definitely awake, and trying to sit up. He was clearly in pain despite the pain-killers, and very worried about what had happened. Belaia walked over to him, and sat with him in silence for a moment, allowing him to register her presence. She was pleased to note that the nurse and the Insectoid healer had both stayed outside, affording a few moments of privacy. Eventually, he turned his head toward her. “Is Vrakzoltret okay? Why can’t I talk to her?”

“You were both injured in the fight,” Belaia told him. “Vrakzoltret will be awake soon, but you both need to rest; I can’t let either of you move around at the moment.”

“But she’ll be okay?”

She hesitated for a split second. It was enough to make Greene try to lift himself to his feet, but she gently pressed him back down. “Try not to worry, Lieutenant. We’re doing everything we can for her; we have one of their Healers here, so everything should be fine.”

“How badly was she hurt?”

“I can’t discuss medical details of other patients with you, you should know that. I’m sure you’ll find out soon, though.” She paused for a moment, waiting for Greene’s response, but he remained silent. “If you’re well enough, I’ll let you wait by her bed when she’s due to wake up,” she relented after a few minutes. Standing, she walked out of the room, nodding to the head nurse and Kiftzolkrup.

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 18 December

Vrakzolfutt sat in a small meeting room on the second deck of the Pride of the People. With him were Vrakzolkopp, Vrakbelfam, Spostbeltakk, Kiftzolskak and Vrakfelstap. He looked at each one of them in turn; the Third of Vrakzol, the Head of Law Enforcement, the Junior Priest who had acted so valiantly to preserve the human-Insectoid alliance, the Healer and the Junior Law Enforcer. An unlikely team, he thought, but they would perform well together. As the assembled group settled onto stools, he stood to address them.

“You are all aware that one of the People has been attacked,” he said without preamble, “as has the human charged with her protection. Vrakzoltret is no longer on active duty, and Kiftzolkrup has rushed to her aid in the country known as Rus-Sya.” He let this sink in for a moment. “As the Deputy High Governor, I must rule the Vessel while Vrakzolfix is in Kift-vurrl; you all know the sequence of events that led to this – indeed, you all helped prevent the situation from escalation beyond our control. I will therefore send you to Rus-Sya so that you may assist in the investigation into the assault.” He watched the Spost and Kift try desperately to prevent their astonishment from showing in their shells; unsurprisingly, both failed.

He turned to the most senior of the People present. “Vrakzolkopp, you will take overall command of all People on the planet’s surface, in both Oss-Trel-Ya and Rus-Sya. You will use your best judgement to keep the People safe, and preserve the alliance with Earth if possible.” Following this he turned to Vrakbelfam, Vrakfelstap and Spostbeltakk. “You are assigned to the protection of the People. Your primary duties are to assist with military and diplomatic operations, should any be required. Finally, Kiftzolskak, you are to assist in whatever way you are able. Kiftzolkrup has a rather larger job to accomplish than we anticipated; he may need assistance to heal Vrakzoltret, or at least someone to care for everyone else for a while.” He gave the team a Portable Computer-God each. “These will give you more specific orders. The Rus-Syan government are expecting you to land at Bol-Syev-Vo as soon as possible.”

Each team member clasped their four arms together, turquoise-shelled, showing their comprehension and acceptance of their orders. Vrakzolfutt dismissed them and returned to the Kift-vurrl to inform the High Governor of the meeting’s outcome.


A Simple Investigation

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 18 December

Vrakbelfam glared at the three humans with hatred etched into her shell. A fourth human was in the hospital, after someone – probably Vrakzoltret, she thought – had almost succeeded in strangling him; another two were already dead from lethal knife-wounds. It was fortunate for the humans that they were behind bars; she would have liked nothing better than to tear them apart for assaulting one of the People.

“Captain Natalya Krasnaia of the Russian Militia.” The words, spoken with a thick Muscovite accent, had come from a middle-aged lady with short dark hair. “You are Vrakbelfam, law enforcement officer for the Insectoids?” She nodded, and she smiled. “Good; then perhaps we can begin our investigation.”

Krasnaia nodded to the prison guard, who found a large set of keys from beneath a desk and unlocked one of the cells. Krasnaia and Vrakbelfam led the handcuffed prisoner to an interview room, containing a tape recorder, a table and several hard seats. Once the prisoner was sitting on the opposite side of the table from the door, Vrakbelfam perched herself on a chair uncomfortably, mimicking Krasnaia’s posture.

The Russian pressed a button on the tape recorder, then, sounding as though she had been through this a thousand times before and was getting bored with it, began to speak in Russian. “Interview of unknown suspect 1, male, late-40s, bald,” she said. “Officers present are Captain Natalya Krasnaia and Vrakbelfam. Time of start, ten hundred hours, Moscow time.” She finally looked up at the prisoner. “Please state your name for the record.”

The prisoner was silent. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way; it’s your choice,” Krasnaia told him. “Now… what is your name?”

“Dmitriy Gergiev,” the man said at length.

“We’re investigating an assault on a member of the race known as the Insectoids and an Australian military officer,” she said; clearly, Gergiev was aware of that, for he simply shrugged. “You were found unconscious along with five other men at the scene of the attack. You are not on the records as a staff-member at the facility. Why were you at Bolshevo?”

“Isn’t it obvious? These Insectoids are scum and deserve to be kicked off our planet!” Angrily, Gergiev slammed a fist on the table. “The Unified Earth Organisation” – he sneered at the name – “should have sent them back where they came from, and be done with it. My group will put a stop to their invasion plans!”

Fighting to keep her shell – and her temper – under control, Vrakbelfam asked, “Your group? You and the other three survivors of your assault on one of my people? One of whom is now in hospital, and the rest of whom are in jail?”

“We’re larger than that,” Gergiev said angrily. “Our actions were just a taste of what we have planned if Earth does not repel these – these things immediately. We will fight the war that Earth will not, to ensure Earth remains free.” Glaring at Vrakbelfam, he added, “You and your fellow insects will leave Earth now, or be struck down for your insolence.”

“So who exactly are your group?” Krasnaia placed her hands on the table gently, leaning forward slightly to take the focus – and pressure – off Vrakbelfam, who had begun to turn pink with rage.

“Concerned citizens from around the world,” the prisoner said. “That is all you need to know.”

“There are non-violent ways to get your point across,” Krasnaia answered. “If you took the time to use them-”

“The Insectoids will have taken over by that time,” Gergiev roared. “Don’t you see?” Infuriated, he glared again at Vrakbelfam. “It’s bad enough that humans invade each other’s countries, and now we’re letting insects in?”

“The Insectoids are a non-violent race,” Vrakbelfam answered, red-shelled. “Your UEO agreed that we had the power to harm you if we wished; why have we not done so already?”

“Because you’re biding your time,” the man answered. “If your attempt to take over peacefully fails, you will use force. But we will be ready!”

“Back to the issue at hand,” Krasnaia broke in, shooting a glare at Vrakbelfam for allowing herself to be baited by Gergiev, “You are admitting to assaulting the Australian and the Insectoid?”

“With pleasure,” the prisoner grinned. “The more insects and collaborators die, the harder it is for them to win this war.”

Ignoring the obvious bait, Krasnaia smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Gergiev; I don’t think we’ll get any more from this meeting.” Giving the time once more for the tape, she led the prisoner back to his cell.

***

“I think it’s clear who these people are,” Krasnaia told Vrakbelfam when they were safely ensconced in her office. “Earth has recently faced some severe terrorist threats. This is another misguided attempt to force one world-view on the rest of Earth.” Shaking her head, she added, “I hoped we were past that after President Chang negotiated a peace settlement in Eurasia, let alone when your craft showed up. I’m sorry you were drawn into Earth’s politics.”

“We expected that something might happen,” Vrakbelfam answered. “It is not easy to open one’s arms to strangers, especially when they act completely differently from you.” A moment later, she added, “Earth took a risk by contacting us. We also risked everything by contacting you. We could have ignored each other, or attacked each other. It is understandable that people on both sides should be afraid that our diplomatic relationship may break down.”

“True, but it’s still frustrating. This will be moved up a level to the anti-terrorism department, but, as Gergiev said, we’ll never find them all.” The Russian looked at the Insectoid wearily. “May I ask what you intend to do? Will you leave Earth because of the harsh words and actions of a few of us?”

“That is not my decision,” she told her, “But I doubt it. As long as we are welcomed by your official government, we will stay. You say Earth has suffered major terrorist attacks over the last few years. I do not see humans give up on peace, so why should we?” Silenced filled the room for a full minute. “Besides,” she added at length, “If we leave now, the terrorists have won, and beaten Earth into submission. My recommendation will be to stay in the area.”

Satisfied, Krasnaia nodded her agreement. “We got word from the hospital; Vrakzoltret and Greene are stable, and should be released to medical care closer to their homes soon. They will need to take it easy – especially Vrakzoltret.” She paused, unsure how to continue.

Sensing Krasnaia’s unease, Vrakbelfam looked up at her from the report she was typing into her Portable Computer Terminal. “There is something else, is there not? Something about Vrakzoltret.”

“She…” Krasnaia struggled with how to phrase the news. “Two of her limbs became infected. The healer tried everything, but poison moves fast through the body, and with the wounds near so many vital organs, they couldn’t take any chances.” She paused. “They will probably have to amputate both mid-arms in order to save her life this evening. I’m sorry,” she added, when Vrakbelfam did not comment.

After what seemed like an age, but was actually only a few seconds, Vrakbelfam nodded. “She will learn to live with it,” she said simply, before changing the subject. “When do you intend to interview the other assailants?”

“I have several officers doing that now,” she answered. “I think they will tell us no more than we already know.” Looking up from her own pile of reports, she added, “I wish I knew how they entered Bolshevo. They must have had an ally on the inside – someone with clearance to get them into the compound.” Checking a file, she added, “The only people with that kind of authority are Tamirova, Baikov and Mokasheva. All of them were aware of Vrakzoltret’s presence, and all of them had the opportunity to let the intruders in. I think this is where our investigation must take us next.”

***

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 18 December

“Vladimir Baikov is dead,” Tamirova told the two investigators who had just barged into her office. “He was found this morning with his throat slit; apparently, he took his own life.” She appeared worn, and, from what she had just told Vrakbelfam and Krasnaia, this was not just because of the party she had recently attended. Barely keeping her sadness in check, she added, “I was about to make a report when you came in. He must have felt really bad about failing to escort his charges to the barracks.”

Krasnaia nodded. “I’ll need to ask a few questions, to determine his whereabouts during the party and fight.” Tamirova gestured for her to continue. “Was he at the party two nights ago?”

“He was, but only for a short while; he said he felt ill, and left early. I asked him to make sure someone escorted our guests to the barracks, but they departed without telling us,” Tamirova answered. “I noticed once I had finished a conversation with my staff that they were gone; that was around midnight, just before we went to search for them.” She paused and collected her thoughts. “If only I had escorted them myself, this might not have happened.”

“Then again, it might have put you in the Kift-vurrl as well,” Vrakbelfam told her. “I doubt one person would have made much difference to the outcome of the fight.”

“We’ll send someone to investigate Baikov’s death properly,” Krasnaia reassured her, “But for now, we need to concentrate on your guests. You say they were alone for a while before you found them outside?”

“Yes – I don’t know how long that was, though. Nobody remembers seeing them leave; we were too busy with the party, and they said nothing about going.”

“Lieutenant Greene has given us a fairly good idea of the evening’s events up until the time they departed,” Vrakbelfam said. “He was in your group for quite some time. He says you… I believe the phrase was ‘spun a yarn a mile long’, and he left the group just as the party started to come to a finish.”

“It’s possible. Everyone had consumed a lot of vodka. I forget who was in which group of people.”

Vrakbelfam decided that asking what “vodka” was would probably derail the investigation. Instead, she continued, “We need to know how these individuals got into the compound. They had to be cleared through security – the fence would be impossible to climb. May we check your security records?”

Tamirova nodded and ushered the investigators from her office. “We can check the security cameras and logs from the security station.” Leading the way down the corridor and into a small room barely big enough for five humans, she nodded to the guard, who stepped aside to allow the detectives to enter. “This computer will allow you to check the logs,” she said, indicating one of the consoles, “and this will allow you to scan through the security tapes.”

“Thank you; we’ll be sure to tell you if we find anything,” Krasnaia said, sitting in front of the first terminal. As Tamirova left the room, the Russian detective opened the automated entry logs. She immediately picked up an anomaly: there had been an entry at quarter to eleven the previous evening. Six men had been scanned, and, although the scans had located knives, they had been allowed through. She accessed the entry, hunting for an authorisation code.

Cross-referencing this with the roster, she discovered the mole: Vladimir Baikov.

***

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 19 December

Pondering his options, Vrakzolfix read through some of the myriad information that had crossed his path over the past few days. Somewhere in there, he believed, was the answer. With no Spostzol, the computers would, eventually, fail, and the People would be doomed. The people had to act, quickly.

The human researchers had discovered that the Pride held terraforming equipment – perhaps Mars could be transformed to suit their needs? Alternatively, a large debate had enveloped Earth; some countries may offer his people a new home, although he personally felt that Earth’s generosity had been relied upon too much recently. The third and final option was to continue exploring other star systems, in the hope that another habitable planet could be found.

Eventually, though, he deactivated his terminal, having found nothing that could help him aside from the humans’ suggestion. For the first time in known history, the People would vote, rather than abide by the Vrakzol’s wishes; this, he felt, was the only way to make a fair decision.

The vote would be held in two cycles’ time; before that, he would have to give yet another speech, outlining their options and the reasons for and against each one. He still needed to know which of Earth’s nations would accept the People as refugees from the ship.

A light blinked on his terminal, alerting him to a message, this time from Dr. Morrow. Activating the channel, he smiled again. “I take it you have news for me?”

Morrow nodded. “We’ve found no evidence of anything that can disrupt the landing process, once initiated,” he said. “I checked everything; there’s nothing left that a Spost could use against the ship, not even a shred of the virus. I think the Spost have something else planned. The last time we saw the ships they stole, they were on the way to Russia.” He paused, concern visible in his eyes. “Vrakzolfutt tells me that you have sent a squad down there to aid in the investigation.”

When the Governor didn’t answer, Morrow continued, “The Russian Militia will begin tracking down Vrakzoltret’s assailants, in tandem with some of your squadron, on Vrakzolkopp’s orders, over the next few days. They report that the attackers may be part of an anti-contact group. Given what we’ve learned, I think that the Spost may try to form an alliance with them, in order to force you out of the system.”

“I see,” Vrakzolfix answered finally. “I am glad that the People can be of assistance in this matter, but I am concerned about this anti-contact group. I expect that Vrakbelfam will contact me soon with information about the investigation.” He deactivated his communications console. To himself he added, “The question now is… what should I do?”

The Awakening

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 19 December

After what felt like Cycles of chasing the light across the ocean around her, she began to think she would never catch up with it. Any companions that were with her had long since disappeared out of sight; she was truly alone, but the ocean did not drown her. As she tired, she was aware of the single point of light slipping away from her. However, the ocean did not fade from view; light came from nowhere to grasp her and keep her safe from the icy-hot pain of the ocean’s depths.

She floated, allowing her body to rest. As her limbs began to regain some strength, she felt a gentle pressure on the front of her body. She tried to move away, but her limbs had stopped responding. She breathed deeply, and an unfamiliar, sterile scent suffused her body. She realised that her eyes were shut, and tried to open them. As she did so, a strange grunt-like sound, not at all like true speech, floated into her ears. Although the sounds were unintelligible, a half-forgotten memory told her what had been said: “She wakes.”

Again she tried to move, this time managing to rotate her head to see what had made the sounds. Her vision was still blurred, though; instead of the dark rock she should have seen anywhere on the Pride of the People, the wall was white. The individual she saw seemed upset, by the colour of its shell, but it made no threatening moves. It grunted again, but this time, she did not understand. She must have responded somehow, though, because after a moment, the individual picked up a black cylinder and grunted into it.

From the cylinder, a voice began to speak. “Lie still, Vrakzoltret; you must rest.” The entity placed a pink-shelled hand on her upper shoulder, and she immediately realised that it was not the same species as her. None of the People could survive with such soft chitin; their bone structure was built to reinforce their shell, not replace it. She pulled away, and the entity retreated. “I apologise,” clicked the device in response to its grunts.

From the other side of her, she heard clattering, as though something was bouncing across a metal sheet. She turned her head to see someone who was definitely the same species as her – a Kift, distant memory told her; a healer. Soothed by his presence, she felt her shell become neutral in colour, belatedly recognising the fear that had coursed through her body, paralysing her and, in all likelihood, displaying itself on her shell.

As the healer reached her, he realised she was conscious. “You are in a Kift-vurrl,” he told her. “You are safe. Can you speak? Do you recall what occurred?”

She tried to speak, to tell him no, but her voice refused to work. Her distress must have shown, because the healer spoke again. “The lethargy and inability to speak is a result of the sedative and anaesthetic in your system. You should drink some water.” He filled a small beaker from a jug on a nearby table, and, lifting her head, pressed it to her lips.

She took a sip. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, and she quickly tried to drink the rest. The healer removed the cup before she could do so. She tried to speak, and this time her voice responded. “Water…” she croaked, realising just how parched she had been, and how much her throat ached for more of the cool, refreshing liquid.

“Not too fast,” the healer instructed. “You will make yourself ill.”

She glanced the other way, back to the strange grunting entity. Her mind tried to supply an identity for its species, if not for this individual, but still the memories were elusive. She pushed an upper limb in the entity’s direction, and it grasped her hand warmly. For a few moments, she allowed the sensation to suffuse her, hoping to jog her memory, but she was forced to admit defeat. Looking at the healer, she asked, “Who…?”

“This is Nikolai Gorlovich, the Head Nurse of Bol-Syev-Vo Military Kift-vurrl,” the healer explained. Seeing her quizzical expression, he added, “We are in Rus-Sya, on Earth. You were with Lieutenant Paul Greene at the Cosmodrome when you were attacked.”

The words and names made no sense at first, but after a few seconds, a memory of flying over water at high speed with an entity obviously of the same species as Gorlovich appeared in her mind. She snatched a tendril of the memory, and for a second, her mind took her to a cold, windy airfield, where she and the same individual – Greene – were descending from an aircraft. The memories flooded back to her with increasing speed – the Cosmodrome, the supervirus, the party – and finally, leaving for the barracks with Greene, and being…

“Attacked…” Belatedly, she realised she had spoken out loud. The memory of pain, almost as strong as it was during the battle itself, rushed to her conscious mind. Fully awake now, she remembered the knives piercing her coat, rending muscle and chitin apart. She saw Lieutenant Greene on the ground once more, his face swollen and puffy, and the six attackers around her.

She tried to move her mid-arms, but they would not respond. Only then did she realise that she could not even feel them. She reached down to where her mid-arms should have been, but found only fabric covering her chitin. Panic struck her again, and she struggled to rise onto her remaining four limbs, but the healer held her down. She looked at him, silently pleading with him.

“You were severely injured,” he told her. “There was permanent damage to your arms, and enough poison in your blood to kill you. I was forced to operate, or risk your death.”

“You should have allowed the poison to take me,” she hissed. “I would rather die than live like this!”

“The Healer’s task is to preserve life above all else,” he answered, placing an arm on her shell. “The Rituals are clear; I had no other choice.”

“Rituals be DAMNED!” Thrusting his arm away, she turned her head toward him. “How do you expect me to live with only two arms?”

He appeared to think for a moment, before saying, “It will be hard, I will not deny that. But you will adapt, because you are Vrakzol. It may take months, maybe even years, but you will learn to cope.”

“How? Tell me who, among the People, has ever successfully coped with this type of disability!”

The healer’s answer was swift. “None, because no Insectoid in any of the People’s memory has ever had to live with only two arms. But I can think of several billion humans who manage very well.”

“They are designed for it; I am not.” Her shell was now an angry red, but she did not care – her life was in ruins.

“True, but there are humans who have lost an arm or two. They can cope, so why could you not?” He paused for a moment, but before she could answer, he added, “If it helps, think of it as an aid to your exploration of human life.”

“Fantastic,” Vrakzoltret snapped sarcastically. “Why not remove the rest of my shell too, cut off my abdomen and give me a human larynx!”

The healer was silent for a time. “You are Vrakzol,” he repeated at length. “You will learn to cope. You do nothing with your mid-arms that cannot be managed with your upper arms.”

Her response was swift and sure. “I cannot move quickly on two limbs, and I will no longer be able to drop to four or six limbs. I cannot fight, I cannot participate in many of the Vrak Rituals, and I cannot complete my tasks as an Attendant or Speaker. You have killed me as surely as the poison would have. Leave me,” she ordered him. “Let me have peace.”

“Very well, but I will return later,” he told her. He left the room, followed by the nurse.

Vrakzoltret tried desperately not to think about her arms, but potential problems assaulted her from all sides. The central arms were the most versatile set; they were used for moving, as well as for handling items. Without them, she would find it difficult to balance on a stool, as they served to keep her from sliding. She would be slow, and would have to stay upright at all times; her lower legs were good, but they were made to share her weight with her other limbs.

Then there were instincts and reflexes to re-learn. Her automatic response to a threat could no longer be to drop to the floor and use her shell as a shield, and her upper limbs to wield a weapon. She had to learn to use her height, rather than her strength and speed, as her main advantages. While the Vrakbel had taught her minimal upright battle techniques, they were designed to buy time for the “drop-and-shield” method.

Working would be another problem. Even if she stood upright for her entire shift – a bad idea – much of the equipment she used required four hands to operate properly. Then there was the question of how her colleagues would react; would they, as she feared, shun her, or would they accept her? And even if they accepted her, would it be a grudging acceptance? Or would they be constantly struggling not to show their disgust for her dismembered body? Would they now treat her as useless, or would they welcome her readily?

Her thoughts turned to the fight. She wondered how she could have acted differently. She would have frozen without the coat, but with it, she had lost her balance and most of her ability to fight. She hadn’t expected to use her skills, but that didn’t mean she should have restricted them. Her initial impulse had been to run, but then the Australian would be dead. Unable to think how she could have coped better with the circumstances, she began to compose her report to Vrakzolfix in her mind.

Some time later – she wasn’t exactly sure how long – Gorlovich, the head nurse, peered around the door. She looked up at him, and motioned for him to come in. “Do not worry,” she told him, “I am awake. You do not disturb me.”

“I thought you might be,” the nurse grinned. “I’ve brought some of your food for you. You also have a visitor, if you feel ready.” As he said this, a junior nurse pushed a strange chair on wheels into the room.

Recognising the man in the chair, she nodded. “Hello Lieutenant,” she smiled at him. “Come in. I would offer you some food, but we still do not know what is safe for you to eat.”

“That’s okay, I already ate,” Greene answered. “And I thought I told you to call me Paul?” The junior nurse wheeled him to Vrakzoltret’s bed, then the two hospital staff departed. “I heard you were in the area, and begged the nurses to let me see you. Apparently we’re both alive and reasonably well, somehow.”

“Alive, yes,” she answered. “Reasonably well, I am not so certain about. It appears that your head took almost as much of a beating as my arms, although your head was not removed.” When Greene was silent for a few seconds, she reached out and held his shoulder firmly. “Thank you for the actions you took to preserve my life.”

“I think we saved each other’s lives,” Greene answered after a moment. He placed his hand on hers, and held it for a minute. “You could have run, you know.”

“And leave you behind to face those blades?” She shook her head in the human custom she had learned. “No. Besides, I would not have travelled far in that coat.” Smiling again, she added, “You, however…”

“I don’t leave my team-mates behind,” he said forcefully. “That’s not how the Air Force operates.”

“When Kiftzolkrup came in here earlier, I told him I would rather have allowed the infection to take me,” she told him after a few minutes of silence. “I cannot imagine how I will cope with only two arms.” She exhaled sharply, hoping to mimic a human sigh. “I will be the first of the People to live with any form of dismemberment in known history,” she added at length. “So many of the Rituals involve the mid-arms. We use them to greet others, in the Cleanliness Rituals, in our tasks on the Pride… I cannot think of a time when they are not used. Without them, I will be seen as weak, unable to contribute to the Rituals. I will become casteless.”

“You can develop ways to cope with that. You spend most of your time on two legs anyway, only dropping to four or six limbs in an emergency. Most of the tasks you use your mid-arms for can be accomplished with the upper arms.”

“Not in the Control Centre,” she answered. “The consoles require four arms to operate, and the rest-platforms are designed so that you place four limbs on the ground for balance when you have no tasks to complete.”

“Then you would need to seek out a new sitting posture, and do the best you can with two arms. You should be able to get help with that – on Earth, if not on the Pride.”

“And what of my duties as a Guardian of the Vessel? If I cannot drop to four or six limbs, I cannot fight. If I cannot fight, I cannot participate in the Drill Rituals, or defend the Pride if it should require defence.”

“There are human fighting techniques that you could learn. I can teach you some Judo, for example. That would help your balance and your ability to fight upright.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she began to say, but they were interrupted by the arrival of Vrakzolfix and Kiftzolkrup.

“I hope I do not interrupt you,” the High Governor said.

“No, High Governor,” Vrakzoltret answered, attempting to push herself off the bed. She succeeded, though her legs were shaky. “I apologise for my condition.”

“You should not have stood,” Vrakzolfix told her. “You will worsen your injuries.” Before she could protest, he added, “The Rituals are for the Pride of the People only, and do allow for such circumstances as these, in any case.”

“I thought you were in the shipboard hospital, High Governor,” Greene broke in. “Something about a blast from an energy pistol?”

Seeing Vrakzolfix’s confused glance at Greene, Vrakzoltret clasped her two remaining arms together. “High Governor Vrakzolfix, this is Lieutenant Paul Greene of the Oss-Trel-Yan Air Force. He was entrusted with my safety, and fought valiantly at my side when we were attacked. And, if I may speak honestly,” she continued, pausing to allow the Governor to assent, “I heard the same news.”

“Yes, the Kift wished to keep me under observation for another Cycle, but I argued that I was to travel to another Kift-vurrl, with the First of Kiftzol in attendance. They relented, so I am here.”

“May I humbly ask the reason for your visit?” Kiftzolkrup was attempting once again to return Vrakzoltret to her bed, uncertain whether to show authority to Vrakzoltret or subservience to Vrakzolfix. “Is there some way in which the Kift on board the Vessel fail to meet your standards?” He was not having much success, so he decided to leave his patient to her own devices for a few moments; standing could only help her, he reasoned, though not for long.

“I wish to discuss something privately with Vrakzoltret, although not,” he commented, with a slight orange hue in his shell, “unless she looks after her health and returns to that dormancy pallet.”

Taking the hint, Kiftzolkrup and Greene left the room, and Vrakzoltret climbed back onto the bed, though resting her thorax on the wall behind her, and her abdomen on the bed itself. As Vrakzolfix spoke to her, she felt her shell turning a turquoise-gold combination. Her reply was swift and certain; once Vrakzolfix had an answer to his initial comments, he continued chatting with her for a while. When he left, Greene returned, without Kiftzolkrup, who was dealing with some paperwork.

“I see you’re sitting up,” Greene smiled, wheeling himself to her bed again. “Are you certain that’s good for your joints? On the way over here, you were reluctant to risk damage to your joints by sitting like that.”

“I was concerned on the aircraft because I was uncertain whether the pressure would be distributed evenly across my body,” she answered, smiling. “This is actually quite comfortable,” she admitted.

“You seemed surprised by Vrakzolfix’s visit,” he commented.

“Yes – though I cannot discuss the details at this time,” she responded. “Have you heard any results from the investigation?”

“Not yet,” Greene frowned.

“I wish I could join them,” she said at length. “But I must undergo a recovery period first,” Vrakzoltret replied. “I do not think the healers will be happy with me if I exacerbate my injuries.”

“Me too, but I doubt I could do much good for the investigation right now, and the more rest you take, the better you will feel.” He sighed. “Rest, rest, rest… that’s all I seem to be doing right now. What I wouldn’t give to be out there solving this mess.”

“I know, but rest is essential, as the Rituals state.”

“I’ve done worse,” Greene nodded. “What do you think they’ll find, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Vrakzoltret admitted. “Besides, if I knew, there would not be much point in the investigation, would there?”


Into the Dragon's Den

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 19 December

“It appears that we have a mission,” Vrakzolkopp commented as the last of his team entered the meeting room at the Bolshevo cosmodrome. “Earth’s problem and our problem are potentially one and the same. I trust you have all read the information sent by the High Governor?” When the team confirmed that they had, he continued. “We think that the terrorist group here on Earth may be in contact with the Spostzol, and, if this is the case, it puts us – all of us,” he added, looking from his fellow Insectoids to the humans who had joined them, “in a great deal of danger.

“Our mission is to find and break up any such alliance, by order of the High Governor and President Chang of the UEO. Officially, we are two teams on similar missions. The human team is to find the leader of the rogue humans, whilst the People will locate and eventually retrieve the Spostzol for questioning. Unofficially… we work together. Major General Tamirova and I have elected to send two mixed squadrons to certain locations.

“The first team will consist of Vrakbelfam, Kiftzolskak, Captain Krasnaia and Major Mokasheva. Vrakbelfam will be in command.” Nodding to the Vrakbel, he continued, “Your mission will be to find the Spostzol craft. We know the general area in which they landed,” he added, pointing to a sector on a map that had been set up on one of the walls. “What we do not know is their exact location. If you find them, you must learn whether they have allied with the human rebels, and if so, what plans they have.”

Turning her attention to the rest of the group, she said, “Major General Tamirova will lead Spostbeltakk, Vrakfelstap and Doctor Belaia to find the rebel base in Bolshevo, kindly provided, after some… I believe Captain Krasnaia’s term was ‘gentle persuasion’, by one of the prisoners we captured four cycles ago. You must find out how many rebels are in the base, and if you feel you will succeed, infiltrate it to recover all the information you can.”

Standing, he indicated the radio sets. “I will remain here to co-ordinate efforts. Each team will carry two hand-held radios, weaponry and whatever other equipment you deem necessary. You leave as soon as you are ready. Any questions?” There were none. “Then good luck.”

The two teams filed out, chatting softly, presumably determining how best to run each mission. “May the Computer-Gods bless this mission and keep them from harm,” he added quietly as he perched himself by the radio sets.

***

“Maintain radio silence as of this moment,” Tamirova ordered as Team Roadrunner slipped into the building. Motioning to the team to keep quiet, she peered into the murky lobby. As far as she could tell, the room was completely empty, but, still alert, she said nothing. The floorboards beneath her feet threatened to creak with every step she took, but she carefully navigated across the empty space in the centre of the room.

With a signal, she sent Vrakfelstap and Belaia to examine the small desk that stood in one corner. Spostbeltakk joined Tamirova at the exit on the far side of the room, waiting for their colleagues to finish their investigation. Aside from the door through which they had entered the room, three other rooms were accessible from this lobby. The first room’s door was open, and Spostbeltakk could clearly see that it was empty, with no other obvious exit. The second was a cooking area, with enough space for three people to stand. A quick examination revealed that it was devoid of anything useful to the team.

The final door was locked firmly. Peering through the keyhole, Spostbeltakk could make out a well-furnished room in near darkness, though a light source was present. She waved Tamirova over to her and indicated the locked door. Nodding, the General removed a hairpin from her neat bun and inserted it into the lock. After fiddling around for a moment, she heard something click, and removed the pin, now badly bent. Carefully, she turned the handle.

The window on the far side of the room gave just enough light for Spostbeltakk to see by as she crossed the threshold. In the centre of the room sat a large oak desk, with a luscious fake-leather swivel chair placed neatly behind it. The desk was empty apart from a small pile of paper, which Spostbeltakk quickly looked through. It can’t be this easy, she thought as she squinted at the papers, finding a list of over five hundred names. She turned to show Tamirova, but the General had not followed her into the room, and the door was now shut. Trying the handle, she found that it was also locked.

Certain that Tamirova had her reasons for locking the door once more, she hunted for a place to hide in case her team had been discovered. As she opened the small cupboard to see if she might fit inside as a last resort, she happened to glance at the corner of the room. Not quite covered by an ornate stand, she spotted a small trapdoor. Praying that it was unlocked, she rushed over to it and pulled the stand aside.

To her amazement, the trapdoor came with it, revealing a ladder leading down into darkness – when she looked closer, she found that the stand was firmly affixed to the sliding door. She descended far enough to be inside the chute before dragging the trapdoor shut again. The chute was now completely devoid of light. Using her hands to find each rung, she slowly continued to the bottom of the ladder. After a few minutes of climbing, she felt soft soil beneath her feet. Reaching around herself, she realised that she was at one end of a tunnel. Staying against the wall and on all sixes, testing her footing every step of the way, she began to follow it.

***

Vrakfelstap barely noticed Spostbeltakk enter the room, nor did he hear the door lock automatically behind her. Busily searching the edges of the room, he was not aware of Tamirova’s own departure into the empty room that Spostbeltakk had dismissed. What he did hear, however, was Belaia’s shout as two human men entered the room. One of them was short and thin, with dark, neat hair; the other was equally short, but slightly more rotund. Both of them bore two pistols, and neither of them looked friendly.

Behind them, Tamirova lay unmoving on the floor. Blood was pooled around her chest, and her neck lay at an impossible angle. Vrakfelstap started forward, but stopped when one of the men pointed his weapon at the Insectoid. Even with his shell protecting him, a bullet would still kill him if it struck the wrong place. Rising to two legs, he raised his hands slowly, watching Belaia do the same.

Then the impossible happened. The weapons flew out of the men’s hands as the back wall of the room literally opened! Realising that there must have been a secret entrance in the room, he took advantage of the humans’ momentary confusion, ducking to all sixes and racing forward. Reaching up for the first man’s throat, he felt himself thrust aside by the second man.

Belaia was a split second slower than Vrakfelstap. She leapt forward, barrelling into the second man as he tried to grab the Insectoid in a choke-hold. As he fell, a whirlwind seemed to rush from the side of the room, impaling the first human – who had reached his weapon and was about to fire – against the wall. Ignoring the melee surrounding her, she concentrated on her own target. Punching his face hard enough to draw blood, she watched as his eyes rolled into his head. He was still breathing, and thus still alive, but he was definitely unconscious.

As she pulled back from him, Belaia noticed that he had also been striking her, enough to bruise her eye and shoulder; somehow, the adrenaline rush had made these connections less painful, so she had not realised they were happening. Glancing to her side, she saw Spostbeltakk finishing the first human off, and Vrakfelstap shaking himself into consciousness.

Gingerly, she felt for Tamirova’s pulse. Her fear was confirmed when she found none. Turning to Spostbeltakk, who was looking hopefully at her, she shook her head. Immediately, the Insectoid turned dark grey, and turned her eyes downward for a few seconds.

“I was too late,” Spostbeltakk said. “I was locked into the room I was exploring, but found an escape tunnel. I followed it, and came up in an alcove just behind that wall,” she explained at length. “I saw them leave as I got there. The portal had closed by the time I arrived, and it took me too long to find the switch to open it again.” Slowly, she looked up to meet Belaia’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You could not have done anything about it,” Vrakfelstap answered, his head still pounding. “I should have noticed the fight but didn’t. We can throw ‘should have’s and ‘could have’s around forever if we want. The question is, what do we do now?”

“We’ve explored everything except that passage,” Belaia answered. “I will stay here with Tamirova if you wish to continue to explore.” Glancing at the men, she added, “Besides, someone has to make sure these thugs don’t get loose. I brought some rope in case I had to do any climbing; might as well use it to tie them up now.”

The Insectoids nodded, and entered the still-open wall. Using their flashlights, they descended the small ladder onto the ground. Now able to see, Spostbeltakk gazed at the junction they found themselves in. To the left was the ladder they had just descended. On the right, Spostbeltakk recognised the ladder to the office. Ahead lay an unknown corridor, along which the Insectoids slowly proceeded. As they neared the end, they heard voices, and deactivated their torches.

Peering around the next corner, Spostbeltakk spotted two humans and one Insectoid. She instantly recognised the latter as Spostzolrib, but could not immediately place the humans, though she was certain she had seen them before. Listening intently, she caught snatches of their conversation.

“The Spostzol can help,” Spostzolrib was saying. “We have the same goals and needs, and we have resources that you do not.”

“You still have not convinced me that I should make a deal with an insect to get rid of a plague of insects,” one of the humans insisted. “It’s a bit like making a deal with Satan to get rid of devils!”

“I am not familiar with that reference,” Spostzolrib answered vehemently. “But you will fail without my aid. The assault team you sent to my base was destroyed in minutes by a small garrison! We were outnumbered three to one!”

“Very well; I shall… compromise,” the human said eventually. “We will accept Spostzol help, as long as you go with them.”

“The People will act within days to cement their alliance, and possibly land on Earth. We must act now, or we lose all hope that the People will ever return to space,” Spostzolrib answered. “I have a plan.” He moved slightly, and his voice became too muffled to understand. When it became clear that they would hear nothing more, they started to make their way back along the corridor. Unfortunately, Vrakfelstap’s foot found and snapped a twig.

The Insectoids froze for a moment, listening for movement behind them. Hearing nothing, they continued along the passage. Suddenly, from behind them, they heard a shout; glancing behind them, they saw the two humans and Spostzolrib bearing down on them with Red 5 weapons. Knowing that time was short, they raced forward, leaping up the ladder, yelling to Belaia to get ready for a rapid retreat.

As they left the passage, the humans reached the bottom of the ladder and fired upward, singeing Vrakfelstap’s back. Shouting in pain, he pressed onward, diving behind the wall. As Spostzolrib followed the Vrakbel up the ladder at speed, he was momentarily confused to see the two bodyguards who had been left above tied with rope and lying prone on the floor.

Glancing rapidly to the left and right, he spotted Spostbeltakk and Vrakfelstap bearing down on him from either side, as well as a human peering around the door to the chamber. Striking out to the left and right at the same time, he missed the human’s gun. It, however, did not miss him. As the bullet struck his shell, shattering part of it, he curled up and rolled backward instinctively, knocking the humans – who had just reached the top of the ladder – back into the passage. By the time they untangled themselves and reached the top again, the intruders and bodyguards had vanished. All that remained was a pool of blood where Tamirova had been slain.

***

The human soldiers’ eyes widened as Belaia came out of the narrow alley carrying Tamirova’s body. Quickly, they opened the armoured van in which they were travelling, and helped Belaia prepare the corpse for transport. Being in the medical profession, Belaia had seen her fair share of death. This was by far the worst she had known. Feeling sick, she made a brief report to Vrakzolkopp. The prisoners and Vrakbel were already aboard the transport, so she climbed aboard and nodded to the driver, who pulled away an instant later.

***

“We got back without too many difficulties,” Belaia told Vrakzolkopp some hours later, as she struggled to keep her face steady. “Spostbeltakk still has the list of names and addresses. Clearly, the door to the office set off an alarm, so the two bodyguards rushed from their hiding place and took General Tamirova by surprise.”

“Thank you; go and rest. You all have wounds to heal, and I must inform President Chang and the High Governor of this. I think we can also recall Team Coyote from their mission; we now have proof of the alliance, and of their plans.” Vrakzolkopp placed her hand on Belaia’s shoulder. “You did all you could, Doctor. Nothing could have saved the General.”

Belaia nodded, and led the team from the room. As they left, Vrakzolkopp turned to the radio and signalled Team Coyote. “Coyote from base: Abort mission. Repeat, abort mission.” He waited for a few keppaks, but there was no response. “Team Coyote, please respond,” she requested. Another too-long six keppaks passed. She was about to try again, when the radio crackled.

“This is Coyote One. Mission aborted; we travel to the pickup location now. What happened, over?”

“Team Roadrunner was able to find proof of an alliance between the humans and the Spostzol,” Vrakzolkopp answered. “We also know that they plan on attacking within the next cycle, so that the People cannot launch the landing pods, over.”

“Acknowledged, Base. We have a name for this group of humans: The Human Freedom Brigade.” Vrakbelstum paused for a moment, probably listening to one of his team members. “I have been reminded that we are still near to Spostzol patrols, so I should avoid chatter. Coyote out.”

[RJDiogenes]

I will try to get caught up this weekend....

[Jim Gamma]

And now, the continuation...

Sorry for the delay with this, been busy with other things for a while!

*******************************

Planning for the Future

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 20 December

“You should be able to travel soon, if your recovery continues at this pace,” Kiftzolkrup told Vrakzoltret, “But you must use one of the Pride’s auxiliary craft and a Healer must be present at all times if you travel over a long distance. I know you are capable of short walks, but we do not know how the pressures of flight in a human aircraft will affect you.”

“I have no plans to fly in a human aircraft,” Vrakzoltret answered, her shell submissive. “At least, not until I can be certain that I am able to remain in my seat with no risk to myself or others under such high pressures.”

“I will allow you to return to Oss-Trel-Ya, if that is your wish, but you must report to the hospital in Canberra if you experience any difficulty at all,” the Healer continued. “They will ensure that you do not become infected again, and help you to regain your strength.”

“I did not think you would allow me to continue my research,” Vrakzoltret commented, surprised. “I assumed I would be taken to the Pride and kept in the Kift-vurrl for some time.”

“This is not permission to continue your research,” Kiftzolkrup admonished. “You are on medical suspension of your duties, until I am satisfied that you will not leak blood everywhere if you strain yourself. I simply believe that Oss-Trel-Ya will be as good as the Pride for your recovery.” He glanced over at Lieutenant Greene, who sat beside Vrakzoltret’s bed. Greene was to be recalled to Australia soon – although the Australian government had arranged for another Air Force pilot to collect his aircraft, and for Greene to be transported in the Insectoids’ landing craft, since he still had not completely healed.

“Thank you, Healer,” Greene said. “I’m also about to go on leave until the new year, so I volunteer to ensure that Vrakzoltret obeys your instructions.”

“You conspire against me?” Her shell showing humour, Vrakzoltret glanced at the human. “I suppose I have no choice but to obey.” She made a show of turning her shell even deeper turquoise. “It is fortunate that you were able to test some of Earth’s vegetation, and that Vrakbelfam’s reaction to the human ‘Kof-Fi’ was just a reaction to the temperature,” she said, changing the subject. “I begin to grow bored with military sustenance packs.”

“You managed to do research while you were here?” Greene raised an eyebrow at the Insectoid healer. “I’m impressed; I thought you’d have enough to deal with, caring for Vrakzoltret!”

“Actually, Kiftzolskak has accomplished some of my research; it is useful to have a second Healer here.” He allowed his shell to turn slightly gold. “He is an excellent Second of Kiftzol; it is a privilege to serve with him.”

“Hey, you know what that means? You get to try out some real Earth cooking! And with Christmas coming up, you’re here at just the right time of year!” Greene clapped Vrakzoltret on the shoulder, grinning.

“You must exercise, if you want to leave within the next few days,” Kiftzolkrup reminded Vrakzoltret. He moved to help her stand, but she brushed him aside, lifting herself from the bed gently and standing for a moment.

As she walked around the ward, pursued – but not actively helped – by Greene and Kiftzolkrup, she asked, “What reaction do you believe we shall receive when we return to Canberra?”

“I don’t think they’ve told the world the specifics of our mission here,” Greene answered. “I don’t know if they’ve even said we’ll be back soon; I doubt they would, even if they knew when we’d be back, ‘cause they don’t want us overwhelmed by reporters or anything.”

“Good – I doubt I could face a crowd until I am better able to cope without my arms,” she commented. “I believe they will have informed the other researchers, but they know better than to stop their activities to meet us. I will probably have to provide them with a… what did you call it… a ‘blow-by-blow account’ of my visit when they return to our residence, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably have to do the same for my family – though obviously not the classified bits,” Greene agreed.

Finishing her walk, Vrakzoltret sat awkwardly in one of the human chairs by the bed, then watched Greene and Kiftzolkrup perch on stools – Greene on a human version, and Kiftzolkrup on an Insectoid version brought in specially. The chair was comfortable, and although she felt slight pressure on her abdomen and thorax, it was akin to a light touch by a trusted friend, rather than the painful assault she remembered from her first use of human chairs, in the Australian aircraft.

“Slightly easier than last time, right?” Greene had noticed the slight gold tinge in her shell. “You shouldn’t test yourself like that, though,” he admonished when Kiftzolkrup turned to look at him, with an orange-red shell. “You don’t want to upset your bandages or re-open your wound, do you?” Kiftzolkrup nodded, satisfied, and left them to their discussion.

“I will use a stool for the flight back to Oss-Trel-Ya, since the auxiliary craft will not have chairs,” she answered as she pulled herself up out of the chair and back onto the bed. “I have, however, stated that this is a comfortable position for me now on several occasions.”

“Fine,” Greene responded. “But surely it’d be easier to just use the stools until someone comes up with a seat suitable for both humans and Insectoids?”

“That will not occur for some time,” she asserted, before hesitating. “I cannot discuss this further for several days, but - ”

Greene nodded in understanding, and interrupted her. “Classified information?” She nodded. “Well, if you want to try human methods, perhaps you should come and visit me over Christmas,” he suggested. “You’ll only get bored staying home alone while your team’s out researching. My family won’t mind having you – in fact, they’ve been trying to get me to tell them all about you ever since they heard I was flying you to Russia. All we have to do is get this authorised by our governments.”

“So now I am a research specimen for a human family?” Vrakzoltret allowed white and red to show on her shell. “I know that is not what you meant,” she continued as Greene tried to extract himself from the hole he had just dug. “If all concerned parties will allow this, I will be pleased to accept the invitation.” She paused for a second. “Off-duty is a strange concept for the People. We dedicate our lives to the Work of the Computer-Gods, and do not allow ourselves to become engaged in frivolity for more than a porak or two each Cycle. We never have more than a full Cycle with no work-shift. To act based on our own wishes for any length of time is considered a sign of a weak mind among the Vrak.”

“Well, we humans need time off occasionally – that way we work harder when we’re at work, and allow ourselves to release our tension.”

“I can understand the lure of ‘time off’, but the People follow the Rituals so rigidly that even when we have what you might consider to be ‘free time’, we still live according to their principles. For instance, I walk around the ward regularly, but this is not simply my decision – it is part of a Kift Ritual to ensure that all patients do this.”

“I’m surprised the People reacted as well as they did to the news that the Spostzol were lying to them,” Greene said after a few moments of silence. “I’d have thought that there’d be some resistance to that idea.”

“The rest of the Spost caste was able to speak in favour of the Vrakzol; with the governmental caste, the Priests and the Computer-Gods in agreement, none of the People dared to challenge it openly. Some may harbour doubts, but they will not make this widely known. The People do not usually express their own opinions; this whole situation is entirely new to us. Humans, however, are able to deal with large threats inside your own society, and you speak your mind with ease.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s always easy for us to say what we think and feel,” Greene mused. “Though I guess we have it easier then you. Anyway, looks like lunch is coming around.” Sure enough, an orderly pushed a trolley into the ward, full of food. Spotting Greene in Vrakzoltret’s room, he delivered both meals at the same time. “Yum – hospital food,” Greene said, though his voice was devoid of emotion. “Sausage and mash and apple pie for me, today.”

“An entirely new experience for me, though obviously without the meat products,” Vrakzoltret reminded him as she awkwardly grasped her knife and fork. “I do not recognise most of this food, but Kiftzolskak assures me that it’s safe for me to eat.” She quickly said the words of the Sustenance Ritual and began to eat.

“Yeah, I think it’s a shame you can’t digest meat,” Greene answered after swallowing his mouthful. “You’ll miss out on a lot over Christmas.”

“I would disagree,” Vrakzoltret smiled, cutting a potato in half. “The idea of consumption of the flesh of an animal disgusts me greatly.” She gingerly tasted the potato. “I mean no offence,” she said hurriedly as Greene raised an eyebrow at her.

“None taken,” he grinned. “We all have our own preferences; besides, that’s probably a genetic reaction.”

When she had finished the main course, Vrakzoltret copied Greene’s use of the spoon to eat the apple pie. “Most unusual,” she said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “The apples are similar to karrask-fruit from the Pride, but that should not surprise me, I suppose. Though karrask are more solid.”

“The apples were likely stewed,” Greene guessed. “That makes them soft and easy to eat. Normally, apples are crunchy – you’ll find that a lot of Earth foods can be eaten raw or cooked.”

Counting the Cost

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 21 December

Vrakzolfix gazed at the list of options open to the People one more time, feeling quite unprepared for the coming day’s vote. This would be the first real referendum since the Spost took over; as such, it had to proceed without a hitch. He enumerated the options to himself one more time.

The first – to colonise Mars – was his preferred choice. It would enable the People to live as they wished, and to remain together. It would also give Earth and the People a chance to get used to each other; until a few days ago, the only meetings had been via radio wave, and Vrakzolfix still struggled to believe what had happened since. This was also the best option for Earth’s dwindling resources; over time, the People would come to rely upon Mars’ resources and could establish trade routes with Earth’s population.

The second was to land on Earth. The humans were happy to accept this, but it would mean splitting the People up. It also placed additional strain on Earth’s resources, and could serve to cause a fierce war, if the joint human-Insectoid missions failed. Despite this, his staff had seemed happy on Earth, and they had worked hard to achieve good relationships with the humans.

The third, and probably the worst, was to simply leave the system. Whilst this would please the rebels on Earth and the Spostzol, he had no guarantee that the ship would survive another interstellar voyage. Even if it could, the computers would eventually cease to function without Spostzol maintenance. That required Spostzol control, which he was not prepared to allow.

He was so engrossed in these thoughts that his monitor flashed the “Incoming Communication” symbol five times before he responded. Apologising for the delay, he saw that the caller was Vrakzoltret.

“I thought you might be asleep up there High Governor,” Vrakzoltret commented. “Vrakzolfutt told me you were awake when I asked if I could leave a message. I wanted to thank you for your visit.” She smiled – clearly that human habit was infectious. “I shall have a report for you some time tomorrow; time spent in a Kift-vurrl gives me plenty of opportunity to write.”

“Understood – thank you, Vrakzoltret. I look forward to your report. Do not strain yourself, though,” he answered. “I would like to know, however, what you intend to do once your mission is over. We have a vote after this dormancy period to decide whether to stay in this star system.”

“I shall vote to stay, sir,” she confided. “I will do what is required of me whether we stay or go, though.” She glanced at the human behind her, then nodded. “Lieutenant Greene is also due to write a full report; he feels it would be better for us to submit a joint report to you and to his government. Is there anything else you require of me at this time?”

“I fully expect you to use your time to recover,” the Governor answered without missing a beat. “Remember what we discussed; I believe you might wish to think some more about it.”

“I do not need time to think, High Governor. I gave you my answer when you visited; you need not ask me again in case I have changed it.” She spread her smile even wider. “I am grateful that you took the time to talk with me, sir. Lieutenant Greene once again reminds me that I should not waste your time without reason; I shall allow you to continue your work.”

He hadn't even known he was going to discuss it with her before he had ordered the auxiliary craft prepared. It had just happened. Now he thought about it, though, his mind had been mulling over the question ever since President Chang had made the suggestion. Vrakzoltret was, of course, the perfect choice. She would fit in much better than any other Insectoid, and, if he had read the signs right, she was forming a fast friendship with Lieutenant Greene.

Wishing that he could fast-forward through the next cycle, he logged off his terminal, left his office and returned to his quarters. Given the excitement of the past few days, he would be glad to get an uninterrupted night's sleep. Once he had finished the pre-Dormancy Rituals, he climbed into his sleeping pod and curled up, instantly falling asleep for once.

***

Bolshevo, Russia, Earth, 21 December

"Apologies," Vrakzoltret called out to Greene. "The High Governor was awake, so Vrakzolfutt put me through to him." She moved back to the two stools where she and Greene had been sitting for the past 30 minutes. "I wanted merely to give him an estimate on when our report would be complete, but he wanted to confirm something from his visit." Stoically keeping her shell neutral, she added, "The vote is almost certain to result in our continued presence in the solar system, whether on Earth or on Mars. I will tell you what he said when the vote’s result is known."

Greene looked at her and grinned. "That's great!" Ignoring his injuries, he reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder, startling her momentarily. “I really hope things turn out as you expect; it will be fantastic to form a more permanent relationship between our species. You know, if you do stay, the next step would be opening an embassy on Earth. Where d’you think they’d put it?”

"I… am not certain," she told him. "But my guess is Australia, because that's where we first landed. So what was so important that you had to tell me twice to come over here?"

"I just heard from Kiftzolkrup; he says that the mission yesterday was a partial success."

"That is good," Vrakzoltret said. "Did he know any specific details?"

"Only that Doctor Belaia made the initial report for her team."

Surprised, Vrakzoltret faced Greene. "The Doctor reported in? What happened to General Tamirova?"

"Kiftzolkrup didn’t know, or at least he wouldn’t tell me." Concern etched his face. "I'm sure she's fine - she's a military officer, after all." He turned away and stared out of the window. "I hate waiting, you know? It's not what I signed up for. I should be out there, helping to complete the mission, not wasting time here while my bruises heal. You feel it too, I know you do."

"Yes," she admitted. "I am bored, and I do wish I could assist my colleagues, but I would be a liability, as would you. And we have had this discussion several times already in the last two poraks. One of our philosophers once said that it is far better to perform well at something you can do than to fail at a task you know you cannot achieve. Another adage is that everyone has something to give to the whole, even those who appear to do nothing."

"We have similar sayings," he responded. "The first is to know your limits. We also try to stretch beyond them, but sometimes, you have to do what you're good at. The second would be 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' That's by the poet John Milton, reflecting on the blindness he sustained." Sighing, he added, "It still doesn't make it any easier, though."

"That is true," Vrakzoltret agreed. “Did Kiftzolkrup say anything else?”

“Yeah – we’ve been asked to attend a meeting in a few hours. They’ll come and get us when they begin.”

***

“The Russian Militia will send two squads to the Spostzol camp, and one to the HFB base we located,” Vrakzolkopp informed the reassembled Roadrunner and Coyote teams, plus Vrakzoltret and Lieutenant Greene. “We expect the Human Freedom Brigade to have relocated by now, since they know we are aware of their location, but the Spostzol camp cannot easily be moved. They will also take some Vrak to help capture the Spostzol, since this is primarily a concern of the People. We expect them to land within the hour.

“They have promised to inform us how both assaults go, except where the details are classified,” he continued. “I do not think I need to tell you that today’s missions are top secret until President Chang and the High Governor allow us to speak of them. Until a public statement is made about or by the Human Freedom Brigade, the threat they pose must be kept to a minimum.”

The group nodded as one. Vrakzolkopp walked to one side, allowing his eyes to meet with Doctor Belaia’s for a split second. The floor is yours, the look said. She stood and walked to the front. Tears forming in her eyes, she avoided direct eye contact, and began to speak.

“Today, a great woman has died in the cause of peace. Major General Olesya Tamirova of the Russian Space Corps was killed in cold blood as she defended the alliance that was being forged between our two peoples.” Taking a deep, ragged breath, she continued. “I am proud to have known the General. She was a woman of sound principles, and was willing to go to any extreme for people she barely knew. Her official funeral will be tomorrow, but we grieve for her already. May she rest in peace.”

Belaia stood to attention, and was gratified to see everyone else in the room do the same. Vrakzolkopp took a pace forward, and formally dismissed them. As they filed out in silence, Belaia turned to the Third of Vrakzol and bowed her head, allowing an unspoken word of thanks to pass to him. Slowly, she left the room, still dwelling on the mission.

Vrakzolkopp allowed the silence to speak on his behalf as he looked at his compatriots. The People had remained silent and grey-shelled throughout the meeting, as they considered his words; even the usually verbose Vrakbelfam had simply sat and stared ahead. The past few days had cost everyone dearly, Vrakzolkopp reflected. Perhaps too dearly. He counted the deaths in his mind once more.

Many of the People had died in the battle between the Spostzol and Vrakzol. From what he had heard, around thirty Human Freedom Brigade fighters had lost their lives when they attacked the Spostzol camp. Tamirova and Baikov had died for very different reasons, but they were still dead. Greene and Vrakzoltret had dispatched three Brigade fighters when they were attacked, and maimed another three. Another Spostzol lay dead aboard the Pride, having failed in her attack against the human research team.

It could have been so much worse, though. Greene and Vrakzoltret had remained alive through sheer luck, and Vrakzolfix had narrowly avoided being killed by an energy blast. And still, there was more bloodshed to come. Facing the window, he prayed desperately that the coming battles would be brief and would avoid unnecessary deaths.


Evil Unknown

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 22 December

High Governor Vrakzolfix examined the myriad reports he had received over the last Cycle. Vrakzoltret’s report was currently on the screen of his Computer-God, and he had read it through several times, trying to make sense of the information it held. There was an intriguing description of the fight at Bolshevo, along with an affirmation of the Speaker’s intention to continue fulfilling her duties to the best of her abilities. I almost wish I had not set her up for this, he thought. She did not deserve these results.

When Vrakzolfutt had suggested promoting her and assigning her as Speaker of the People, he could have objected, and said that she was too young to be given such authority. But he had been persuaded by her exemplary performance in the Drill Rituals and at the Communications Station to give her the chance she obviously craved.

The decision had been made, and the past could never be remade, though. If she could cope with this when she was restored by the Kiftzol to duty, she may prove to be one of the strongest of the People he would ever know. Kiftzolkrup’s report from the human Kift-vurrl had surprised him; she was already showing resilience beyond anything he could have anticipated.

As he stared at the final part of the report blankly, his door-chime sounded. “Come in,” he called, looking at the wooden door as it was pushed open. Recognising the Second of Vrakzol, he stood, hands clasped in welcome. “I assume that the vote commences?”

“It does, High Governor,” Vrakzolfutt answered, stepping through the door and sitting opposite Vrakzolfix. “Your speech earlier was received well by the People. All castes will vote over the next two sakoraks, as we planned, then representatives from the Zol of each caste will join for a quorum vote tomorrow in the Chambers.” He stood for a moment, resolutely keeping a blue shell.

“Your colours are blue, but your head is green,” Vrakzolfix observed. The colloquialism had confused some of the humans, according to Vekkbeltann’s report; apparently English was not the only language with strange phrases. “Is there a problem?”

“It is… not a problem, High Governor,” Vrakzolfutt answered, allowing some anxiety to show in his shell. “I would say it is more of a concern.” When the Governor motioned for him to continue, he explained. “We still have not heard from the teams assigned to retrieve the Spost. I am concerned that Vrakzolkopp has failed.”

“The mission could last a full eighteen poraks, perhaps even longer,” Vrakzolfix reminded him. “We will doubtless hear from Vrakzolkopp once it ends; until then, their communications could be intercepted by the Spostzol.” He was silent for a moment. “If I did not trust Vrakzolkopp completely, I would be tempted to send a reconnaissance team to the Spostzol camp. What do our Computer-Assisted Sights show?”

“The sights show that there are still a large number of our auxiliary craft on the surface of Earth,” Vrakzolfutt answered. “There is a thick layer of cloud in the area, and we cannot view the surface to see the battle unfold.” He stood, preparing to leave. “Because I trust you, High Governor, I trust your decision to send Vrakzolkopp on this mission. I simply wish that we knew more of the events on the surface.”

“Thank you for your trust, Second of Vrakzol,” Vrakzolfix answered, standing once more. When his subordinate had departed, he gave him a few keppaks to leave the corridor, before adding, “I hope only that it is not misplaced.” With that, he left for the Vrak Chamber of Decisions.

***

Dr. Christopher Morrow sat in a Kelkbel Sustenance Zone along with two Star-Seers, Kelkbelvakt and Kelkbelpral. He had bumped into them – almost literally, as they had been discussing the votes they had just cast, rather than watching where they were going – a few minutes ago, while deciding upon a place to eat his rations. They had been delighted to see him, and were pounding him with questions about Earth, now that they had eaten their meals.

Most of the questions had been about Earth’s telescopes and observing stars through an atmosphere; with pride, Morrow had shown them images of the Hubble Space Telescope and other equipment in orbit of Earth and beyond. He used the Pride’s computers to connect to the Anglo-Australian Observatory and showed them images of distant nebulae and stars, explaining them in depth. He tried explaining the technology involved, but the Insectoid language was apparently ill-equipped for such descriptions.

He was therefore delighted when Paula Garcia arrived, and pressed her into service as a translator. Eventually, the Insectoids began to understand the idea of refractive and magnifying lenses, systems which, until recently, they would have explained by saying that “The Computer-Gods allow us to enlarge images.”

“It appears that human star-sight is more advanced than our own,” Kelkbelpral noted when she felt she understood the concepts Morrow had explained. “I had no idea of the apparatus involved in understanding distant stars. For us, the Computer-Gods provide descriptions of any stars we may wish to visit.”

“I think you may be more advanced than you believe,” Morrow answered. “Your scanning systems have a much higher resolution than ours, and we are still only just beginning our exploration of the skies. You, however, have been travelling for millennia through space already.”

“Is a species truly advanced if they do not understand the technology they use?” Kelkbelvakt took hold of the glass of water in front of her. “I understand that this is a glass of water, and I can understand that without the need to know of the constituent elements of water or of glass. However, a Materials Scientist would be able to explain how water is formed and how glass is created and shaped.” She replaced the glass on the table. “I do not need to understand that to use the glass; all I need to know is that by lifting it to my mouth I can drink from it.” She did so, then continued, “In the same way, all I need to know is that the Computer-Gods tell me details of planets and stars, so that I may find stars at which we may refuel without exhausting our current resources. I know how to use the product of a system, but I do not know how the product is formed, so my knowledge of that area is not truly advanced.”

“That’s not really for me to say,” Morrow responded diplomatically. “To me, your use of ubiquitous computing is astounding; we are only just starting to use computers in all areas of life, so the idea of telling a computer what food or drink you require and watching it arrive so quickly is strange to me. I use computers a great deal on Earth, and understand their inner workings quite well, but I wouldn’t know how to create a computer system like this,” he said, indicating the sustenance slots on the far wall. “For me, your use of this system says that your society is very advanced.”

“Your point is understood,” Kelkbelvakt said at length. “However, we must depart as we are both due to report for our duty shift.” She and Kelkbelpral stood, extended all four arms and turned to leave.

“Actually, I’m scheduled to spend the next sakorak observing in the Star-Sight Chamber, and Dr. Garcia is due to observe the Rituals in the Control Centre.” Morrow said. “I assume you’re on duty in the Chamber?”

“Yes; you are welcome to walk with us,” Kelkbelpral answered. “I am sure Kelkbelvakt would be interested in continuation of your philosophical debate if you wish, though I prefer to leave those subjects to the Podd thinkers.”

“Philosophy isn’t for everyone,” Morrow agreed, as he and Garcia followed the two Insectoids as they left the establishment. “I don’t usually get involved in that sort of debate unless it’s about astronomy – what you call star-sight.”

“I dabble in philosophy,” Garcia admitted. “My interest in other cultures often leads to an examination of their philosophies. It often helps me to understand the use of language by others.”

The group entered one of the lifts and Kelkbelvakt entered a series of instructions into the control panel. As the doors slid closed, she asked, “What does our philosophy tell you about our language, Doctor Garcia?”

“I’ve learnt a lot actually,” Garcia answered, smiling. She took a breath and launched into what could have been a lengthy description of the Insectoid language, but Morrow was unable to keep a straight face. She turned to him, and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Doctor?”

“No, it’s just that I’ve heard this about three times now today; you’ve given the same lecture to almost everyone we meet,” he commented. “Well, four times, if you count this occasion.”

“I would like to hear the remainder soon,” Kelkbelvakt cut in, turquoise-shelled. “Despite Doctor Morrow’s sarcasm, I did find it enjoyable,” she added.

“Perhaps I should join you – after all, a fifth time can’t hurt, can it?” Morrow grinned, allowing his Irish brogue to have its full effect on the group.

Garcia left the lift without responding, though she allowed herself a brief chuckle when the doors closed. She had no doubt that Morrow was barely able to keep from guffawing in the lift; her love of lecturing on socio-linguistics was an ongoing joke between her and the Irishman. She entered the Control Centre to find Vrakzolfutt in the central seat, and nodded to him politely.

His shell flickering between orange and white, Vrakzolfutt commented, “If you have recovered from whatever amused you, I welcome you to the control centre of the Pride of the People.” The centre had been the first area repaired by the computers’ automated systems following the effects of Supernova. Turning a neutral blue, he continued, “The duty shift has just commenced; we will begin the Orbit Correction Ritual momentarily. Vrakzolfix asked me to give this to you.” He offered her a portable writing tablet. “It contains a list of every step of the Ritual. I have also been asked to inform you that we will be pleased to deliver you to join your caste-mates in your own countries for the next few days.”

She hadn’t even made the request, nor had the rest of her team, as far as she knew. Taking the tablet, she thanked him. “We don’t wish to impose on you,” she told him. “Ferrying us back home early isn’t necessary.”

“We are aware of the importance of the groups you call ‘family’ at this time of year; it will be our pleasure to take you home,” Vrakzolfutt answered, turning slightly orange.

“We have already planned to spend the festive period on the Pride of the People,” she explained. “We’d appreciate being able to contact our families, though.”

He nodded, though he was clearly confused. “Then we shall endeavour to provide communications channels for each of you. Perhaps we should begin the Ritual now,” he added, indicating the tablet. “The Vessel is already locked into orbit around the two magnetic poles of Earth. We simply scan for impediments to the orbit over the next Cycle and ask the Computer-Gods to avoid them.”

Nodding, she joined the pilot at the navigational console. Gaining consent to observe from here, she watched and listened as the pilot obeyed instructions, confirming each with a cyan flash of his shell and a verbal “Yes Sir”. She was impressed by the speed with which the pilot calculated the orbits of anything that came close to the Pride’s orbital plane and flagged them with blue, pink and red circles, denoting various levels of threat. The pilot then began to plot navigation points for the next full orbit of the planet.

After several minutes of silence, the pilot looked up from his task. “The route is set, Sir,” he intoned. “The Ritual is complete.”

“Thank you, Pilot,” Vrakzolfutt answered. “You have performed acceptably. Please continue to observe your console until a Vrakzol directs otherwise or your shift ends.”

The pilot flashed cyan once more, then returned his attention to the console. Garcia took her list of observations to the Second of Vrakzol, intending to discuss them with him, but the communications console at the back of the control centre began flashing. The Vrakbel tending it was busy for a few moments, then turned to face Vrakzolfutt.

“Vrakzolkopp reports that he returns to the Vessel now,” the Vrakbel said. “His Pacification Force will land in bay two-red in six lasaks. They were partially successful, though a large number of Spostzol fled their camp when it was attacked, including Spostzolrib. The remainder fought hard, and both sides sustained casualties.”

“Thank you for your report, Vekkbelblan,” Vrakzolfutt answered. “Please alert Vrakzolfix, then take control here; I shall go to the landing bay to meet Vrakzolkopp.” He stood and turned to Garcia. “Doctor, I regret that I must depart; you are welcome to observe the Auxiliary Vessels’ recovery from here or from the landing bay.”

“I will watch from here,” Garcia told him. “I have no wish to intrude on Vrakzolkopp’s debriefing or any other Ritual you need to undergo.” She watched the Second of Vrakzol leave the control centre and waited to see which station would have the most activity.

Vekkbelblan moved to the centre seat as another Insectoid took her place. The transition was quick and efficient, and Vekkbelblan ordered the landing bay opened to space as soon as she squatted down. “Place the auxiliary vessels on the vision receptors,” she instructed, then stood as the image changed to show the five craft. To her credit, she kept her shell neutral. “Prepare for emergency recovery of the craft, and alert the Kift-vurrl to be ready for wounded.” She turned to the communications console. “Vekkbelstral, alert Vrakzolfix and Vrakzolfutt to the status of those vessels. Prepare the Motion Arrestors in docking bay two-red.”

Garcia watched the image of the incoming craft, stunned. Only after several minutes did she realise she had moved closer for a better view of the screen. The five craft were flying in very close formation. Two of them had clearly taken heavy fire from the Spostzol defenders, and were not moving under their own power. Of the remaining three, one was barely able to keep its engines working, and the other two had sustained hull damage, but were towing the crippled craft home.

Sacrifice of the People

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 22 December

The Kift in attendance at the docking bay were almost overwhelmed, but with the help of the few uninjured occupants of the five craft, they transported the injured to the Kift-vurrl. Of the sixty Vrakzol who had travelled to Bolshevo, only twenty had returned alive, and by all accounts, the humans had lost almost the same proportion of soldiers. The stench of death, thought Vrakzolfutt, was almost unbearable, and completely unprecedented on the Pride.

Vrakzolkopp insisted that he should not leave the bay until every one of the People under his command was transferred from the vessels, despite his own serious injuries. According to the Kiftzol in his vessel, he had refused treatment in favour of his subordinates, claiming to be strong enough to continue, even contacting the Pride himself. He was barely conscious when he reached the Kift-vurrl, and it still took an order from Vrakzolfutt to prevent him from trying to leave immediately to report to Vrakzolfix.

Scanning the room, Vrakzolfutt saw that only three of the People had escaped without serious injury. Vrakbelsab, the pilot, was the most senior of the three, so Vrakzolfutt approached her. Her shell was crimson and dark grey in colour; she was both angry and upset at the loss of so many of the People. She turned to face Vrakzolfutt, but could not raise her eyes to meet his.

“I apologise for my inability to keep my shell, Second of Vrakzol,” she said simply.

He brushed the formality of her response aside, and sat on the stool beside her, cyan-shelled. “You have just undertaken a difficult mission, in which you lost a great many colleagues. A display of emotion is not uncalled-for.” Placing a hand on her shell, he added, “Your flight skills were exemplary; if they were not, we would have lost more of the People.”

“We… we only just managed to land,” she said at length. “I piloted the lead craft, but we were spotted by a Spostzol patrol. They fired on all five craft, and I was lucky to land us in one piece. We lost the engines two spalps above the surface of the Earth, and I was forced to use the motion of the craft to land. I saw two other craft lose their engines as they landed; the explosion so close to the ground made their damage irreparable.” She looked around the ward slowly. “We lost Vrakzolbrog and Vrakzolkresp on landing. Vrakzolkopp ordered us to take shelter behind the vessels and commence our assault, but we were surrounded rapidly, and could not escape the vehicles.

“The humans arrived at the same time as us, as we planned, and attacked from two sides, but other humans fought against them. They did not stand a chance – over twelve of them were killed in the first assault. They knew, somehow. That is the only explanation.” She was silent for a few moments, and Vrakzolfutt allowed the silence to reign. Eventually, she continued, this time meeting his eyes with hers.

“Our allies regrouped and attacked the Spostzol alliance until they began to retreat. We were able to leave the craft and catch the Spostzol in two-directional assault. The Spostzol retreated to their camp with their human allies, and we followed. It was a trap. We pursued them into a system of pathways between hills, but they had observers on the hills who attacked us from above. We lost eleven of the People and five humans before we could flee. Vrakzolkopp was injured as we reached the auxiliary vessels, but refused treatment. I was the most senior Vrak present with no injury, so I took control of the People.

“We were able to launch two of the craft to assault the Spostzol observers from above, which gave the majority of our warriors the chance to assault them from the ground. The craft were able to defend us until the Spostzol launched their stolen vessels. Our pilots were forced to flee, but we already controlled the enemy base, so the Spostzol could not return. The humans had warrior-vessels circling the area, out of range of the enemy’s weapons, and defended us. Three human craft and two Spostzol craft crashed, but the other eight Spostzol craft escaped. They were too fast for us to follow, and we had many wounded individuals.”

Vrakzolfutt inclined his head. “You were correct to remain and allow the healers to do their work,” he reassured the pilot. “The Spostzol will be pursued another Cycle.”

“The humans were able to help us repair our vessels enough to return to the Pride, though the craft I piloted was barely able to power its engines. We created physical connections between the other four craft so that the vessels without engines could be carried to safety. The human warrior-vessels escorted us as high as they were able, then returned to their base.”

Vrakzolfutt remained silent for a few moments. “You performed extremely well under difficult circumstances,” he said eventually. “You need not fulfil your duties for the next five Cycles; you require mental recovery. Your service to the People and to the Vessel is already sufficient to allow an extended period of inactivity.

“I wish to return to duty as soon as possible,” Vrakbelsab answered. “Inactivity will cause me to dwell on this day, and I wish to adhere to the Rituals-”

“You must recover,” Kiftzolzapp broke in, overhearing the Vrakbel’s protests. “I shall place all participants in this mission on at least five Cycles of suspended duties. That includes participants with no physical wounds.” He met Vrakzolfutt’s eyes briefly, a moment of shared concern passing between them.

Vrakbelsab knew better than to argue, and forced her shell to turn turquoise, but could only hold the colour for a few keppaks. She stood shakily and, after extending all four arms to Vrakzolfutt, slowly walked from the ward, no doubt returning to her quarters to begin her medical leave.

“I will ask Kiftzolkemp to arrange discussion sessions with the survivors, once their bodies are healed,” Kiftzolzapp told Vrakzolfutt. “She is our best mind-healer, and should be able to help them recover.”

Vrakzolfutt nodded once, then stood as Ambassador Maris and Vrakzolfix entered the room, extending all four arms to them both. Vrakzolfix returned the gesture, and Maris bowed her head briefly. Kiftzolzapp stood to ask how he could help, but Vrakzolfix merely flickered orange briefly, rejecting the offer before it was made, and began walking around the ward with Maris and Vrakzolfutt close behind. Some of the wounded People tried to speak or rise from their hollowed-out pallets, but most barely recognised the presence of the two most senior of the People on the Vessel and the human ambassador.

For his part, Vrakzolfix listened patiently and carefully to his subordinates when they spoke, and replied gently to each of them, offering words of encouragement or congratulating them on performing beyond expectations. If anyone tried to rise to greet him, he told them not to move, citing an obscure Ritual only a few People would ever learn about.

Vrakzolfutt and Maris took their cues from the High Governor, speaking once he had finished his conversations, Maris thanking the warriors on behalf of Earth. She wore a dark grey covering – a ‘dress’, Vrakzolfutt remembered; he wondered whether she knew that this was the colour of sorrow, or whether it was a coincidence. The group spent some time talking to the patients and healers, attempting to boost morale where they could.

Eventually, Kiftzolzapp approached them from the Kift-vurrl office. “I apologise for the interruption, but my patients require some rest,” he said, his shell cyan. “The Kift-vurrl rituals allow visitors to stay for three poraks per Cycle. The attendance period finishes now.”

“Thank you for allowing our visit,” Vrakzolfix answered, turquoise-shelled. “We will depart immediately.” He led his fellow visitors from the Kift-vurrl and along a short corridor to a transit cubicle. He selected the Vrakzol chambers from the plan of the ship, inviting Maris and Vrakzolfutt to join him. Vrakzolfutt declined politely, as his duty shift in the Control Centre was not due to end for another half-porak, but Maris accepted.

The doors of the cubicle opened a dozen keppaks later, allowing Maris and Vrakzolfix to depart. Vrakzolfutt barely noticed; he was lost in his own thoughts. He stood in the doorway of the cubicle for three keppaks before he realised he had arrived at his destination. Taking control from Vekkbelblan, he requested a status report.

The human linguist walked over to him and stood beside the central seat as the Attendants responded. She stood listening to the reports from each console, which were roughly the same as they had been when he took command of the shift. He looked up at the human, trying to keep his shell neutral. This was neither the time nor the place to go into details about the mission to the surface.

He must have allowed something to show on his shell by mistake, though, as Garcia squatted beside him, and said quietly, “You appear troubled.” He did not openly acknowledge the comment for a few keppaks, even by meeting her eyes. When it became clear that he would not answer, she added, “The auxiliary craft looked badly damaged, from what I could see on the viewer.”

He inclined his head, then turned to face her. “The battle was fierce,” he answered just as quietly, keeping his shell blue. “Vrakzolkopp was injured, and forty of the People died. I do not know how many humans survived the assault. I am certain that full details will be available as soon as possible, but our forces were able to take over the Spostzol camp.” He turned to face the front of the control centre, ending the conversation.

Garcia turned her eyes downward when the Insectoid finished speaking to her. She remained on the floor for a few moments, absorbing the information. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, watching the activity in the control centre as if from a distance, barely hearing the discussion as it flowed across the room. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, looking at the view of Earth on the screen as they orbited. Eventually, she realised that Vrakzolfutt was asking her a question. Shaking herself out of the daze she was in, she turned to face him, and apologised.

“Please, accompany me,” he told her, leading her to a small room just off the control centre, containing a desk with a computer terminal and two stools. “We may speak privately in this room. The control centre is not the correct place for… emotional news. I apologise; I assumed humans were able to control their emotional reactions as well as the People.” She did not respond, save to sit on one of the stools. “You appeared preoccupied; I confess that I have also been unable to concentrate for the past few lasaks.”

“I’m sorry,” Garcia answered. “It’s just… I wasn’t prepared for this. I’m a linguist, not a fighter; I’m not trained to ignore suffering.”

“Nor are any of the People. Perhaps you wonder why I did not inform the Control Centre staff of this when I returned?” She nodded. “I can barely control my own shell; it would be improper for me to burden my subordinates with this news whilst they are in a location where absolute control is essential. The information will be made available to the People once we know exactly what occurred.”

“I guess I have to remind myself that it’s a military control centre,” Garcia answered. She looked at the Second of Vrakzol properly for the first time since he had brought her in here. He was by no means holding his shell; it was dark green, with streaks of black and pink. Briefly, the sociologist in Garcia wondered just how similar humans and Insectoids were in their reactions both to tragedy and happiness. “Thank you,” she added, standing to leave.

Vrakzolfutt stood with her. “Do you wish to end your research session?”

It would have been so easy to say yes, to go back to her cabin and concede defeat to the stress of the past week. Shaking her head, she pressed the switch by the door to open it. “I’ll be fine,” she told the Insectoid as she stepped through the threshold.

[ghost07]

WHOA! Well, it didn't take me long to get myself into this world. This is a great story! I can't wait for more.

[Jim Gamma]

Glad you're enjoying it!

[Jim Gamma]

Last bit's in two segments, otherwise it's too big.

*************************

Return to Australia

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 23 December

The three remaining members of the research team followed Prime Minister Hartup to the aircraft parking area as the auxiliary craft made its final approach. Gazing at the distant vehicle, Hartup prepared himself to receive the craft’s occupants. The vehicle descended to meet the runway precisely at its start, and rolled to a stop about halfway along, before taxiing to the parking area. The airlock opened and Vrakzoltret, Kiftzolkrup and Paul Greene stepped out.

Taking a pace forward, and bringing his legs together, Greene saluted the Prime Minister. “Flight Lieutenant Paul Greene reporting as ordered,” he stated.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Hartup answered, returning the salute. “You’re about to go off duty, I think you can afford to relax a little.”

Greene relaxed his posture slightly. “Request permission to report for debriefing, Sir!”

Realising that Greene would follow procedure to the moment he was on leave, Hartup answered, “Permission granted; your commanding officer is waiting to speak to you in the main building.”

“Thank you Sir!” Greene snapped to attention, turned left and marched to the nearby construction.

And I thought he said we had the monopoly on protocol, Vrakzoltret thought. “Speaker Vrakzoltret of the People reports mission accomplished,” she said simply. “You already have my report.”

“Yes; I regret that you suffered during the course of the mission,” Hartup answered. “If you’ll follow me, we have a limousine waiting to take you back to your accommodation; a series of functions has been arranged for your team over the next few days. Speaking of which, Vekkbeltann wishes to address you.”

Vekkbeltann stepped forward. “Temporary Team Leader Vekkbeltann reports successful research in several areas. I will provide our full written reports this evening, after you approve our itinerary for the next few cycles.”

“I am certain that your reports are satisfactory,” Vrakzoltret answered. “I do not wish to review them. Until further notice, I am on medical leave, so you still command the research team.”

Somehow, Vekkbeltann was able to keep from asking the questions that flowed through her mind, and hold her shell. “Understood,” she said. With that, she turned to follow the Prime Minister, the team trailing behind her, Vrakzoltret at the rear, Kiftzolkrup just in front of her. As they entered the building, Greene joined the group from one side. Vekkbeltann glanced at him briefly, noticing that he appeared much more relaxed than he had outside. He engaged Vrakzoltret in conversation for a few moments, then jogged forward to speak to the Prime Minister briefly. Hartup nodded once, then said something Vekkbeltann didn’t catch. As they reached the car-park on the other side of the building, Greene remained with them, taking a seat in the passenger compartment of the car they were using.

“Lieutenant Greene will join us at our accommodation for a porak or two,” Vrakzoltret explained when Vekkbeltann was unable to hide her surprise. “I shall live with him rather than stay there for a few cycles, so that you need not inform me of your progress each cycle.”

“That is unnecessary,” Vekkbeltann answered. “Your presence would be welcomed by the team; we have been forced to cope without you for some time now.”

“You have led the team well, Vekkbeltann. My sole purpose at our accommodations would be to supervise the team, were I not on medical leave. My presence would serve only to remind you unnecessarily of your superiors. That is the end of the discussion,” Vrakzoltret told her. Vekkbeltann signalled her understanding and compliance, then Vrakzoltret added, “I would like to know, however, why you do not pursue your research today.”

“Most human establishments are closed over Christmas,” Vekkbeltann explained. “Prime Minister Hartup told us that the best way to research Christmas was to participate, so we intend to attend several events during the next three cycles; he has the list if you wish to examine it,” she continued, subtly reminding the Speaker of his presence in the vehicle.

“I apologise, Prime Minister,” Vrakzoltret said in English, turning her shell cyan. “I did not intend to ignore you.”

“No worries,” Hartup answered, activating his translator. “I figured you could use a few minutes to catch up. Besides, it gave me a chance to find this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase, which was open on his lap, and gave it to Vrakzoltret. “It’s the itinerary over the next few days. You and the Lieutenant are welcome to join us, but I need to know today so I can get the car to pick you up.”

“We will discuss it before we leave for Lieutenant Greene’s residence,” Vrakzoltret promised. “Thank you for the invitation.”

A short while later, the vehicle arrived at the human house. Prime Minister Hartup declined an invitation to join the research team for a while, as he needed to return to his own home. Giving Greene a telephone number to dial to request a car to take him home, he instructed his driver to depart. The Insectoids led Greene into the house.

“Please, rest for a short time,” Vrakzoltret told the Lieutenant. “I must converse with Vekkbeltann briefly.” She left him with the other three of the team in the lounge.

The three Insectoids conversed quietly in their own language for a short time; no doubt Kiftzolkrup was telling them what had happened in Russia. Eventually, Vrakbelstum left the other two to their discussion and joined Greene on the far side of the room.

“I apologise for my colleagues,” the Insectoid commented via his translator. “They are uncertain how to react to your presence at this time.” Blue-shelled, he added, “The Team Leader appears to have changed somewhat. She is usually fairly strict about the Rituals. I assume that more occurred in Rus-Sya than a simple attack.”

“She lost two of her arms and nearly died from poisoning,” Greene answered. “I don’t think anyone can go through that and not change emotionally.”

“You are correct,” Vrakbelstum answered. “However, since I am responsible for the security of this mission, I am concerned that she may be unable to protect herself if you are attacked once more.”

“We’re going to be in the middle of the capital of Australia,” Greene answered hotly. “I’m a trained soldier, my sister’s a trained nurse and Vrakzoltret seemed to do very well with two arms pinned to her thorax when we were attacked.”

“Your point is well-made, but if Vrakzoltret must fight, she could loosen her bandages.”

“She will be safe in Canberra.”

“We thought she would be safe in the military installation in Rus-Sya.”

“There will be hundreds of humans in Canberra celebrating Christmas. If anyone attacks us, we will be within easy reach of human security forces. Please, just don’t worry,” Greene entreated.

“My task on this planet is to ‘worry’ as you put it,” Vrakbelstum answered. “But thank you for your attempt to reassure me. You have clearly considered security already, and with a Junior Healer in your, er, family, I am sure she will receive rapid treatment if necessary.” After a moment, he added, “I am sorry I had to speak to you in that manner.”

“I understand,” Greene smiled. “You’re just making sure she’s secure.”

They sat together for a few minutes more, before Vrakzoltret descended the stairs, followed by Vekkbeltann, and entered the lounge. The occupants of the room were speechless for a few moments. Instead of the simple shell-tight covering that had previously surrounded much of Vrakzoltret’s thorax while still allowing her shell to display its colours, she was now dressed in a long garment that started at her neck-joint and flowed down, covering her abdomen and thorax completely, ending up just above her feet. The dress was bright blue, with pictures of white flowers covering it.

“That is one of the garments Vekkbeltann purchased in Canberra yesterday,” Kelkbelkrad commented eventually. “I thought you only acquired them to explore human trade rituals.”

“They have a second purpose,” Vekkbeltann answered, her shell turning slightly purple. “I told you of the conversation I had with Vrakzoltret via the human ‘telephone’. She requested that I purchase some human garments for her own research, and since I was due to practice trade yesterday, I was able to comply.” She added something quietly to Vrakzoltret, who span, allowing the dress to billow out slightly. “This garment was described as ‘very summery’ by the owner of the store from which I purchased it. It should be adequate for this time of year.”

Greene finally found his voice. “You look stunning,” he told Vrakzoltret. “But doesn’t that dress hide your main method of displaying emotions?”

“It does not hide them any more than if I kept my shell,” she answered. “It also masks the bandages around my thorax, although I must remember to keep my abdomen against my legs if I drop to four limbs, so it does not tear.”

Greene smiled. “I’m sure you won’t have to do that for a while, and it looks like you have no problem moving in it,” he commented.

“I hoped you would join us in a Sustenance Ritual before we leave,” she told him. “It is only fair that you should participate in one of our Rituals if I am to visit you over Christmas. Your Doctor Kothari has confirmed that the People’s food is similar to vegetation that originates on Earth, and that you are able to consume it with no ill effect.”

“Then I would be honoured,” Greene answered.

***

“I bid you a pleasant journey,” Vekkbeltann intoned as she stood at the entrance to the human house, following the Sustenance Ritual. “May the next cycles fulfil you.”

“Thank you,” Greene answered. “Have a merry Christmas.” He led Vrakzoltret to the waiting car, and opened the door for her. The Insectoid slid into the human seat, in what Vekkbeltann thought must be a painful posture, with her abdomen bent under her legs, and lowered her head in the direction of the house in farewell as Greene got in beside her. He said something to the driver – presumably directions to his domicile – and the car pulled away slowly.

Vekkbeltann closed the entrance and turned to her team once more. I only hope that this is not to be a repetition of the last time Vrakzoltret left us, she thought. “We should examine the itinerary for the next few cycles,” she instructed. “I believe we are to attend several functions over the Christmas period.”

Kelkbelkrad handed her a list. “We have also agreed to an interview in four days to give our views of the celebrations,” he said. “I realise I was perhaps the most enthusiastic of the team about these interviews, conferences and discussions, but this begins to grow tiresome. The humans ask the same questions at each event, much like a larva just after its Morph.”

“Not all humans are aware of every event we attend,” Vekkbeltann reminded him. “You need to remember that humans do not read Cyclic updates on pertinent events, and that they may be interested in us even if we are irrelevant to their duties on the planet. I realise that this is a difficult concept for any of the People, because we tend to concentrate solely on our duties and ignore everything else, but if we are to relate to humans, and they to us, we must be able to show an interest in all aspects of their lives.”

“I understand,” Kelkbelkrad answered. “I simply do not feel that my ‘favourite colour’ is truly pertinent to anyone but myself.”

“To share that level of information allows them to see us as individuals, rather than a vague, impersonal group,” Vrakbelstum pointed out. “The humans’ interest in us is merely intended to allow them to treat us as real entities, with lives and wishes of our own. They are more capable of friendly behaviour to individuals they feel they can understand.”

“But there are no limits to their interest,” Kelkbelkrad argued.

“I believe that this is because we have been granted… Prime Minister Hartup termed it ‘celebrity status’ in their culture,” Vekkbeltann commented. “Most humans know who we are, and wish to know as much about us as possible. I do not pretend to understand the reason for this, but we must remember that we are seen as the image of the People here.”

“Of course, Temporary Leader,” Kelkbelkrad answered, turning cyan. “I will remember this in future.”

Living with an Alien

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 23 December

Amanda Davies clambered onto the sofa to peer out of the window, so she could see when her uncle Paul arrived. She saw a long white car pull up outside the house, then Uncle Paul got out, followed by a dark-skinned lady in a blue dress. Mum had said he was bringing one of the Insect-People, but this couldn’t be her, as she only had two arms.

Uncle Paul went to the back of the car, but was beaten there by someone in a strange jacket and cap, who lifted the lid and pulled out a large suitcase and another container. Uncle Paul took the suitcase, and tried to take the other thing, but the lady grabbed it before he could, bending strangely. As Uncle Paul turned to the house with a massive grin on his face, he spotted her and waved with his free hand. He looked aside, pointed at her and said something to the lady.

Amanda bounced off the sofa and rushed out of the living room, reaching the door as the doorbell rang. Mum walked into the hall and opened the door; Amanda still couldn’t quite reach the handle. Uncle Paul stepped through, ruffled Amanda’s hair and greeted Mum with a kiss on the cheek. Amanda thrust her arms around him, and he lifted her high into the air.

“Got someone I want you two to meet,” he told them. “This is Vrakzoltret of the People. Vrakzoltret, this is my sister Samantha and her daughter Amanda.”

The lady stepped forward, smiling. “Hello,” she said, her voice rasping slightly like the Insect-People Amanda had seen on TV. “Thank you for your invitation to stay here for a few days. But please call me Tret; I am told that humans use given names in informal situations.”

Before she could stop herself, Amanda said, “I thought Insect-People had four arms?”

Mum glared at her. “Amanda, that’s rude and insensitive!”

“No, she is correct to be inquisitive,” Tret answered. “Ordinarily we do, but I was injured recently and lost two of my arms.”

“Sorry,” Mum said, smiling at Tret. “She’s only six years old; she doesn’t know how to behave around guests sometimes. Welcome to our home; please, come in and relax. We didn’t have time to do much work on it so you can live here easily, but we’ll try to make you comfortable.”

“I have used human furniture for the last few cycles,” Tret answered. “I am able to do so without difficulty. Is there somewhere I may store my container?”

“Mandy, be a good girl and show Tret to the guest room,” Mum said, as Uncle Paul put her down. “Then give her a tour of the house; your uncle and I will be in the lounge if you need us.”

“Come on,” Amanda said, grasping at Tret’s hand. Her skin – no, shell, she remembered from her school lessons – was tough and cool to the touch, but just as supple as human hands. “Your room’s upstairs.” She pulled her forward, and she came slowly. “Come on! I want to show you everything!” The Insect-Person met Uncle Paul’s eyes briefly, still smiling.

“She can’t run as fast as you,” Uncle Paul called to her as he and Mum vanished through the lounge door.

“Sorry,” Amanda said to Tret, slowing down. “I forgot that you don’t run on two legs like people.”

“That is not a problem,” Tret answered her. “You may be surprised to learn that my species is known as ‘The People’ in our language.” Amanda blushed, realising the error she had made. “Do not be concerned; I understood what you meant. Paul informed me that young humans do not always have a good grasp of your language.”

Amanda looked at her blankly for a second, trying to understand the complicated words she was using. For someone who had only started speaking English a few months ago, Tret knew a lot about it! She opened the door to the spare room. “You can store your stuff here,” she said; Tret peered inside, and pushed her crate under the bed. “I can help you unpack if you want,” she said helpfully, but Tret shook her head, and left the room, closing the door.

“I shall arrange my personal items myself before Dormancy Period,” she smiled. “I do not wish to take you away from your other duties.”

“Duties?” Amanda played with the word in her mind for a second, frowning. “You mean school? We’re on summer break for Christmas, I don’t have any schoolwork to do.” She smiled up at the lady. “You wanna see the rest of the house?”

“I believe that was your instruction,” Tret answered.

Amanda took her around the rooms upstairs quickly; first she pointed out Mum’s room and Uncle Paul’s room, then she showed her the bathroom. She wasn’t sure how Tret would use the bathroom, but hadn’t she already said she could use human facilities without difficulty? Finally, she pulled her to her own room, beaming with pride. “I tidied it this morning, all on my own,” she grinned. “I sleep over there, my toys are in the cupboard and my books are all on those shelves.”

“It is… very well organised,” Tret told her. “Paul told me to expect it to appear… his phrase was ‘like a bomb’s hit it’, I think. He must be misinformed.”

“Must be,” Amanda shrugged, trying to look angelic, before changing the subject. “We’d better go downstairs now,” she said, looking at the clock on her bedside table. “It’s nearly time for dinner, and you haven’t seen downstairs yet.” She led her back down and into the kitchen and dining room, then to the den, which held the computer and a bookshelf with around fifty books that would not have looked out of place in the non-fiction section of her school’s library. She saw no sign of Uncle Paul or Mum, so she guessed they must be in the lounge still. She knocked quietly on the door to announce her presence and pushed it open. The two adults were sitting quietly on the soft furniture, chatting quietly.

Uncle Paul turned in his seat as they went in, and she ran to him. He lifted her onto his lap, and asked Tret to sit on the chair next to them. “Just in time,” he told Amanda. “Your mum was about to call you for dinner. Did you go round the whole house?”

“Yes,” Amanda told him. “I made sure Tret saw everything, but I didn’t go in your room or Mum’s room, because I’m not allowed,” she added. “My room does NOT look like a bomb’s hit it. It’s really tidy; Tret can tell you!” Tret nodded in agreement. “See? It’s tidy!”

“Okay, I believe you already,” Uncle Paul exclaimed, laughing and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry I said that about your room. Go and wash your hands.”

Amanda rushed from the room at breakneck speed to the kitchen, where she turned the taps on, getting the water to just the right temperature before putting her hands under and grabbing the soap. She rubbed her hands together, then turned the taps off and dried her hands. As she leapt from the small stool by the sink to the ground, her mother came in and shooed her into the dining room with instructions to set out the cutlery and mats.

***

“That little whirlwind is going to hurt herself if she keeps rushing about,” Greene commented as Amanda left the room, followed by Samantha. “I hope she didn’t go too fast for you on your tour?”

“No, she was very careful to ensure that I could maintain pace with her,” Vrakzoltret answered. “She is eager to please, though I believe too eager at times.”

“Most kids are,” he laughed. “She’s only got her mum for company here, so she tends to get excited when I’m on leave; she’s even more exuberant than normal with you here. Do you have any kids?”

“No; I have no Life Partner, and we do not raise infants in this manner in any case. When we undergo the Morph and become aware of ourselves as individuals, we are already equipped with knowledge of our language and the skills and abilities necessary for basic life,” she told him. “Because of this, we can concentrate on our duties on the Pride.”

“That sounds a lot less fun than human childhood,” he grinned, before standing up. “We’d better go scrub up for dinner too.”

He looked a lot more relaxed than he had at any time since they had met, Tret thought. Perhaps there was something to be said for occasional ‘time off’. She pushed herself from the sofa using her abdomen and legs, taking a step forward to balance properly. “There is great similarity between human and Insectoid preparation for meals,” she said, testing the human term for the People in her mind as she said it. “I assume that the Sustenance Ritual was initiated for the same purpose as human preparations, but it will require further study.”

“No research, remember?” Paul glared at her as they went into the kitchen, though he was grinning. “You promised Kiftzolkrup.”

Forcing a laugh to mirror the hidden whites on her shell, Tret answered, “Can you blame me? I cannot hope to participate in activities here unless I understand them.” She watched as Paul washed his hands, then scrubbed hers. “In any case, I simply report the results of previous research. I have done no new work on the subject.”

“Fine, you win,” Paul grinned, leading the way into the dining room, where Amanda was already sitting, her legs swinging under the chair. “Sit still,” he told his niece. “I know you’re excited, but if you kick Tret, I’ll send you to bed with no dinner.” The girl immediately sat bolt upright, arms folded and legs straight down. “Good girl. Tret, why don’t you sit down?” Quietly, he added, “You don’t have to sit like that, though.”

“I believe I could sit like that,” Tret answered just as quietly, sitting on the chair opposite Amanda and mirroring her posture to demonstrate. The girl let out a strange sound, as though she were exhaling rapidly. Concerned, she asked, “Are you ill?”

Amanda burst into a fit of giggles, and Tret realised that she had inadvertently done something funny. “I do not comprehend what is so humorous,” she said. “I am a guest in this residence, so I obey the rules and procedures in operation here.”

“There’s a rule that says you have to run around the table three times before dinner,” Amanda told her, barely able to keep a straight face.

“I have not seen you do this,” Tret answered, attempting to join in the fun despite not understanding it.

“I did it before you got here,” Amanda grinned, trying – and failing – to look proud of herself. “Uncle Paul needs to do it as well.”

“That’s enough,” Paul answered, grinning. “You’ll make Tret think we have more customs than the Pride!”

“That is impossible,” Tret answered, grinning herself. “Besides, your military regulations are much stricter than ours.”

Paul blushed, remembering his extreme deference to the Prime Minister. “I really can’t defend that,” he said. “I suspect you acted the same way to the High Governor before you were promoted, though.”

Tret was rescued from having to answer by Samantha’s appearance at the door. “You’re all sitting up? That’s great,” she said. “I was just about to come and find you all.”

“May I assist you?” Tret asked.

“No; the food’s already served. I just need to bring the plates in,” Samantha explained. “Mandy, why don’t you tell Tret and Uncle Paul what you learnt in school?”

“Okay Mum,” Amanda said as Samantha went back to the kitchen. She locked eyes with Tret and took a deep breath. “We’ve been learning all about the Insect class of beings, and how they’re different from mammals. We saw how an insect’s body is built, but Miss Andrews says that your bodies aren’t quite the same as a normal insect. You don’t use your antennae all the time, and some of the sections of your body have fused together, so you can stand upright. You have bones inside you; most insects are invertebrate,” she continued, scrunching her face up as she tried to remember the word. “That means they don’t have skeletons inside them, they rely on their shells to stop them going wobbly like a jelly.” She looked hopefully from Tret to Paul, delighted at remembering so much.

“That’s impressive,” Paul answered, giving her the reward she desired. “I hope you’re putting as much time into the rest of your schoolwork, though!”

Samantha returned at that moment, carrying four plates with a strange mixture of vegetables. “Paul says you’re vegetarian; he’s given me a list of everything your Healers have approved for you,” she explained. “You can eat everything here; just ask if you don’t know what something is. Do you have any customs before eating food on your ship?”

“We normally thank the Computer-Gods for delivering our food, but that’s not a relevant Ritual on Earth as the Computer-Gods do not control food production here,” Tret answered. “I have thanked the humans involved in the preparation instead, however.”

“We always say Grace before our meals,” Samantha told her. “Usually the guest of the house is asked to give thanks to God for the food and for those who prepare it, but if you prefer, Amanda will do so.”

“I did not realise that you were a religious family,” Tret replied. “I will gladly give thanks; are there any Intonations I should use?” Samantha shook her head no. “Then I shall translate the words of the Sustenance Ritual, with slight alteration, if I may.” The humans placed their hands together and bowed their heads, so she copied them. “O Great Gods of the People and of Earth, we give thanks for this gift of Sustenance which we will consume this Cycle, and for the process that has prepared it, and all entities involved in it. We pray that we will use this Sustenance to accomplish Your Works with due thanks and reverence.” Remembering the final word to human prayers that she had heard in the transmissions, she added, “Amen,” then opened her eyes and, at the same time as the humans, began to eat.

***

The three humans and their Insectoid guest retired to the lounge once their meal was over. Tret joined in the conversation as best she could, though Amanda kept throwing the discussion in new and interesting directions whenever she could. The girl brought several toys downstairs, but they lay discarded in the centre of the floor for most of the evening. As the daylight began to fade, Amanda’s interruptions were less frequent, and she stopped rushing between her toys, the adults and the television set.

The human adults seemed unaware of the change until Amanda clambered onto the sofa between Paul and Samantha, and brought her knees up to her chest, lying against her mother. Samantha placed an arm round her shoulders, cuddling her, and she nestled closer.

“I think you’re tired,” Paul told her. “Time for bed.”

“No,” Amanda answered, her voice soft and whining at the same time.

“Yes; you’re about to fall asleep, and you won’t want to get up to go to bed,” Samantha instructed. “Come on, now.” She pushed her daughter upright, but Amanda switched positions and leant on Paul instead.

Paul placed an arm around her and stood, lifting her against his chest. She screamed, kicking out, and Paul grabbed her legs to keep them still. “You aren’t impressing Vrakzoltret,” he said, deliberately using her full name.

“Wanna stay here wiv Tret,” Amanda said simply. “Not tired.”

“You appear fatigued,” Tret told her, standing. “You should rest. I will accompany you upstairs if you desire,” she promised.

“Tret, you really don’t have to,” Samantha started to protest, but Tret cut her off.

“It will be a pleasure,” she told her.

“Put me down,” Amanda demanded. “Wanna walk.”

“Okay, but you be good for Tret,” Paul told her, lowering her to the ground. “You want me to come with you, Tret?”

“That will not be necessary,” Tret responded, taking the girl’s hand as they left the room together. “But thank you for your offer.”

Amanda was much slower climbing the stairs this time than she had been when Tret first arrived. She half-stumbled, half-crawled up, and sedately crawled into bed; her mother had bathed her and got her ready for bed earlier that evening. Tret was about to leave the room, when Amanda called her back.

“Want a story,” she demanded. “Book on table.”

Tret scanned the room wordlessly, hunting for the table and book in question. It turned out to be a blue-and-red copy of several stories, known collectively as ‘Fairy Tales’. She brought the book over to Amanda, but the girl pushed it away, demanding that Tret read a story from it. Puzzled at this behaviour, Tret once again offered the book to the girl, to have it rejected just as quickly as the first time. “I have difficulty with written English,” she told the child, offering the book a third time.

“Doesn’t matter, easy book,” Amanda told her, smirking from between her pillow and bed-covers.

“You are supposed to become dormant,” Tret answered, her patience almost exhausted. “If I read to you, it will keep you awake.”

“No it won’t,” Amanda answered sleepily, and yawned to make her point. “Please?”

“Very well,” Tret acquiesced. She opened the book and perched herself on a stool, then began to read it aloud, after pausing to recall the humans’ lettering and word construction rules. A few minutes into the book, Amanda began to make a soft hissing sound, which Paul had told her was ‘snoring’, an indication that she was asleep. Silently, Tret returned the book to the table, turned off the light and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Paul smiled to her as she returned to the lounge. “Everything OK?”

“She requested that I read part of a book, then rapidly became dormant,” Tret reported. “I do not understand how such an activity can cause dormancy,” she admitted as she sat on one of the chairs in the room.

“That’s one of the best things about parenthood,” Samantha told her. “Some of my friends say it’s a nightmare getting their kids to sleep, but Mandy’s never been a problem. A quick story and she’s asleep in minutes.”

Celebrations of the People

Generation Ship Pride of the People, 25 December

Vrakzolfix walked slowly around the Kift-vurrl ward as he had done ever since the assault on the Spostzol base. It was beginning to become almost a Ritual in itself, he reflected, as he stood by Vrakzolkopp’s healing pallet. The Third of Vrakzol had lost consciousness shortly after returning to the Pride, and now lay prone, with several life-preserving machines attached to him. Screens above his head showed his neural energy to be dangerously low, according to the Kift in attendance, and nothing they had tried seemed to work. He placed a hand on his trusted subordinate’s shell, and silently prayed to the Computer-Gods for his recovery.

Moving to the next pallet, he saw that its occupant was awake, and apparently alert. Allowing some more hopeful light blue to reach his mostly grey shell, he extended all four arms to her. “I am glad that you are awake, Vrakbelzarl,” he told her. “I trust that your recovery progresses well?”

“Yes Sir,” Vrakbelzarl answered him, standing and mirroring his gesture, turquoise-shelled. “I wish the same were true of everyone in this ward, however.”

“As do I, but Kiftzolzapp informs me that all of the survivors of the assault will recover eventually,” Vrakzolfix answered. “I do not know the words to ease your pain, but know that you have done a great service for the People.”

“Thank you, High Governor,” Vrakbelzarl nodded. “My aim was – and is – to serve you and to serve the Computer-Gods in all things.” As Vrakzolfix stretched his arms once again toward her, preparing to leave, she climbed back onto the pallet, cyan-shelled. “I apologise that I cannot remain upright for long, but the Kiftzol have ordered me to rest,” she told him, lest he think her impolite.

“Then rest. I bid you a fast recovery,” Vrakzolfix answered. He lowered his arms and walked on to the next bed.

As he visited each of the beds in turn, he considered the variety of injuries they had received. Some were missing patches of outer shell, others had holes in various parts of their bodies, and yet more were still comatose. Some had lost great quantities of blood – for these unfortunate patients, the Kift had set up blood donation areas on the observation decks, and the People continued to offer themselves to the Kift, even when no more transfusions were required.

The last six or seven Cycles had been some of the most hectic the Kift had ever faced, he knew. It was a testament to the integrity of their Rituals that they were coping so well with the sudden unexpected influx of patients. He had wondered briefly whether to request medical assistance from Earth, but this proved unnecessary. Doctor Kothari had offered his services, but Kiftzolzapp and Kiftzolskak had refused, telling him to continue his own research, even lending several Kiftteks to aid him. The Tek rank may be the most junior of all ranks within the Castes, but Kothari had been impressed with their abilities nonetheless.

Finishing his Cyclic visit to the ward, he walked over to the small office-like area where the Kiftbel on duty was working. “I am pleased to see that more of the survivors are awake,” he told her. “Thank you for your permission to visit once again.”

“Your visits boost the morale of our patients, High Governor,” the Kiftbel told him, turquoise-shelled. “We are honoured by your presence.” Standing, she extended all four arms to him. “May your Cycle be pleasant and joyous.”

“That is debatable, but thank you, and may you be fulfilled this Cycle,” the High Governor replied, mirroring her gesture briefly. He left the small room and found the nearest Transit Alcove. Tapping the button to call a Cubicle, he reflected on the human celebrations scheduled for today. The human researchers had remained on board the Pride, despite offers to take them home to their caste-mates, so he had asked the Brak caste to provide a celebration on their behalf.

Although the only religious celebration occurring this Cycle was Christmas, Ambassador Maris had told him that many religions held festivals around this time of year. The research team had celebrants of four different Earth faiths, but all of them would be in the Observation Area on Deck 75, celebrating. He entered the Cubicle as it arrived, and instructed it to take him there.

When he arrived, he was startled for a moment by the aroma of fresh fruits and the wave of excited chatting that assaulted him from all directions. It was, he thought, a stark contrast to the sedate Kift-vurrl he had just come from. Seeking out Ambassador Maris, he spotted the human in conversation with Brakbelzot. Not wishing to disrupt the festivities, he stuck to the edge of the room, until Vrakzolfutt startled him by approaching from the other direction.

“High Governor,” Vrakzolfutt called to him. “Welcome to the celebration. We did not expect you to attend!”

“I can leave if you desire,” Vrakzolfix answered, his shell white. Returning it to a happy yellow, he walked over to his Second. “The celebration progresses well, apparently.”

“Very well,” Vrakzolfutt agreed. “The Brak are to be commended on this event; they have surpassed all expectations.” He extended a mid-arm sideways, indicating that they should walk together. Nodding, Vrakzolfix accompanied him on an aimless walk around the room.

“The humans appear delighted by this event,” Vrakzolfix commented as they passed Doctor Morrow, who was chatting in a thick accent with Kelkbelpral and Kelkbelvakt. “The last few Cycles have not been easy for them, or for the People. I see now the wisdom of occasional ‘time out’ as they would say. It provides them and us a chance to forget tension. Our society has forgotten this; we have not experienced so much collective stress for thousands of years.”

“Yes; some of the Rituals may require alteration, after all we have learnt, but this must be done slowly and with due consideration,” Vrakzolfutt agreed. “However, this is the incorrect time and place for that discussion. We should attempt to enjoy the celebrations.”

“That could be difficult,” Vrakzolfix commented, as a Brakbel saw them coming toward him and scuttled out of the way, extending four arms to them as they passed. “The People are not accustomed to the presence of the First and Second of Vrakzol amongst them for unofficial purposes. It will take them a short time to adapt.”

“That is true. I have attempted to speak to several fel and tek of various castes, but they become nervous and extricate themselves from the situation as rapidly as possible.” He rubbed his mid-arms together.

As Vrakzolfix was about to respond, a group of Bisptek and Braktek glanced nervously at them. Seeing this, Vrakzolfix turned and walked over to them, his shell a combination of turquoise and yellow. Vrakzolfutt stayed back, as he did not wish to make them even more nervous.

“I trust that you enjoy this celebration,” Vrakzolfix said to the group as he reached them. They turned deep turquoise and green, and nodded as one. “That is good,” he answered. “It is a most agreeable event. May I ask what you discuss?”

The group’s members stammered for a moment. Eventually, one of the Bisptek managed to step forward. “We… we admired the sustenance and the decoration, High Governor,” he said eventually.

“This is an informal situation,” Vrakzolfix told them. “You are free to use my name if you desire.”

“Yes High Gov- I mean, Vrakzolfix,” the Bisptek answered, turning cyan. “I… er, we will remember that in future.”

“You have not informed me of your names yet,” Vrakzolfix answered pointedly. “And there is no need to follow the formal Rituals of Cross-Caste Contact here.”

Uncertain how to deal with this turn of events, the Bisptek did the only thing he could think of. He stepped back into the group, shoving someone else forward.

“Please… please excuse Bisptekbralk,” the newly volunteered spokesperson said. “He is not accustomed to cross-caste contact of this nature. I am Braktekspex, and my other companions are Bisptekfelk and Braktekvosk. Braktekvosk is my Life Partner, and Bisptekfelk is Bisptekbralk’s Life Partner,” she told Vrakzolfix. “We would be honoured if you would join us.” She stood up and pulled over another stool, widening the circle for the High Governor to join, right next to Bisptekbralk. “If I may ask a question…” Vrakzolfix nodded. “Why our group? We are simple Tek.”

“Can you think of a group you would rather be with?”

“I cannot,” Braktekspex admitted. “However, different individuals have different preferences.”

Vrakzolfix ordered a round of beverages for the group, telling the Brakfel who served them to charge his trade account. As they consumed their drinks, he asked them about life below-decks. He noticed that Bisptekbralk remained green-shelled throughout the discussion, so when they had finished, he stood to leave the table. “I must depart now, but our conversation was most pleasant. I enjoyed our interaction.”

“It was an honour to talk with you,” Braktekspex told him, standing and extending all four arms. As he left in search of Vrakzolfutt, she returned to her seat.

“Why did you have to do that?” Bisptekbralk hissed at her, flashing slightly red.

“He was clearly as nervous as us,” Braktekspex answered. “It is as difficult for a Vrakzol to speak informally to members of other castes and ranks as it is for us to speak to a Vrakzol.”

“Yes, but right next to me? I could feel his eyes boring into my shell!”

“I believe he was concerned,” Bisptekfelk told her Life Partner. “You did not speak after you pushed Braktekspex forward unless he asked a direct question.”

“Well of course not, the Rituals say we should-”

“We were told to forget the Cross-Caste Contact Rituals for the duration of this event,” Braktekvosk reminded him.

“You may find it easy to ignore the Rituals, but I do not.” With that, Bisptekbralk stood up to leave the table. “I will speak with you later,” he added, marching away.

“You are cruel at times,” Bisptekfelk told Braktekspex. “You knew that Bralk was upset; you could have moved in the other direction and allowed the High Governor to sit next to me instead.”

“I apologise,” Braktekspex answered. “I assumed that Bralk’s nervousness would disappear once the High Governor sat down. Clearly I was mistaken.”

[Jim Gamma]

And now the conclusion

*************************

Christmas at Home

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 25 December

“IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

The ear-splitting yell woke Vrakzoltret from her surprisingly comforting dreams instantly. At first, she panicked and turned red, forgetting where she was, but then she remembered the human house, and the preparations of the previous cycle. It was, indeed, Christmas Day, and a brief glance at the human chronometer by her bed told her that she had been dormant for almost eight hours, or six poraks. She pushed herself onto her other side, trying to rest for a few more moments, but a thumping on the floor outside her dormancy chamber door stopped her. Wondering what the problem could be, she pushed herself out of the bed and opened the door, to see Amanda grinning at her, fully clothed in a bright red and green dress.

“It’s Christmas,” Amanda told her.

“I am well aware of that,” Vrakzoltret answered, pink-shelled, for once using her translation device. “I suspect the whole of the planet is aware of that, possibly even the Pride. That does not explain why you elected to awaken the entire population of this star system in that manner.”

From across the hallway, Samantha’s door opened, and Samantha walked through, rubbing her eyes. “Don’t yell like that,” she told her daughter, yawning. “That’s what our alarm clocks are for.” Seeing Vrakzoltret, she smiled wanly. “I’m sorry she woke you, Tret.”

“I am untroubled,” the Insectoid answered, belatedly returning her shell to a neutral colour as she realised it was visible, since she wore no coverings in the dormancy pallet. Scolding herself for letting her control slip, she added, “I was startled initially, and forgot to control my shell. I apologise.”

“Shell…? Sorry, didn’t even notice,” Samantha said groggily. “I’m not too observant in the mornings.”

Greene stumbled from his room a moment later, blinking in surprise when he saw the three of them standing in the hallway. “I didn’t know we were getting up early,” he commented wryly as Vrakzoltret's alarm beeped. She ducked into her room briefly and turned it off.

“We weren’t, but your niece decided to wake us up as if we were in a military base,” Samantha answered.

“She gets it from her mother, I’m sure,” Greene answered, grinning. “You used to do the same thing when you were her age.”

“We were about to be woken by our chronometers,” Vrakzoltret cut in, now awake enough to speak English. “The result is the same either way. I believe the religious service is in three hours; we should prepare.”

“Good idea,” Samantha answered.

***

The sun was already blazing brightly, and the day promised to be very hot, so when everyone had dressed and eaten breakfast, they walked to the church rather than use the car. Vrakzoltret attracted a few glances and raised eyebrows along the way; no-one but Samantha and Amanda knew of the Insectoid’s presence in the area, but no-one stopped to talk to them until they arrived at the church about half an hour before the service.

The church filled to capacity, and many people were left standing at the back when the priest finally entered to organ and choir music. Speaking through a microphone, he began the service. Vrakzoltret was not used to such gatherings, and took her lead from her host’s family, standing when they stood, sitting when they sat and mirroring their posture.

The service was not as formal as the few she had seen in the human transmissions; the priest wore white robes, but the choir wore standard human summer clothing, and the songs were jollier than she remembered. She wished her voice could create different musical tones so she could join in. Perhaps, she reflected, these customs were dependant on the time of year. She made a mental note to research religion in more depth when she returned to duty.

The humans appeared to be celebrating the birth of an infant called “Jesus”, some two thousand years previously. Several young humans were invited to the front of the room to participate, including Amanda, who was asked to place a model of a baby in a crib into something called a “Nativity scene”, a small display of a barn with animals, an adult couple, and other beings.

As she listened to the service, she took the opportunity to look around at the church. It was constructed of wood, stone and glass, though the glass was in strange colours, and seemed to show pictures, though of what, Vrakzoltret had no idea. The seats were actually narrow benches, so thin that Vrakzoltret had to lean against the back of the seat with her thorax, to avoid putting weight on her abdomen, but she was glad of the shelf in front of her, where she could place both upper arms and give her legs a short rest from holding her upright.

At one point, the priest moved to a small cubicle at the top of a set of stairs, and began what the service sheet called a “sermon”. He discussed and explained the words of the holy text known as the “Bible”, though she barely understood what he said. When he had finished, he returned to the stand at the very front and invited everyone to the altar rail to receive something called “Communion”. Reading ahead on the service sheet, Vrakzoltret realised that everyone would kneel to be given a morsel of bread and a sip of wine, then return to their seats. She watched the first few humans go forward, and registered the motions they took.

When it was Greene's family's turn to undertake the ritual, she stepped out of the row to allow them to exit, then waited patiently for them to return a few minutes later, listening to the choir sing a jolly tune. After the communion had finished, she watched the rest of the service unfold – it was only another few lasaks – and stood at the end with the rest of the congregation. The priest and choir left through one of the room's exits, and the music ceased; this appeared to be the cue that the service had ended, since people began to mill about. Greene left the pew first, and wove a neat pathway through the crowds, which Samantha, Amanda and Vrakzoltret followed rapidly.

“That was impressive,” Samantha commented when they were out of the building.

“Yes, I enjoyed the service immensely,” Vrakzoltret answered. “The priest spoke well, and the musical segments were superb.”

“Did you see me up there?” Grinning from ear to ear, Amanda ducked between Greene and Samantha. “Did you see me put Jesus in the Nativity?”

“Yes,” Vrakzoltret confirmed. When she realised Amanda wanted more than this, she added, “You placed the model with precision.”

“Translation: Well done,” Greene laughed before Amanda could ask what Vrakzoltret meant. “We also heard you reading from the Bible, before you ask. You were very clear.”

“Translation: Well done,” Vrakzoltret cut in, shooting a sideways glance at Paul. “Should we congratulate you on anything else?”

Amanda grinned and hugged Vrakzoltret and Greene, nearly knocking them both over. “I didn’t do anything else,” she said. “I wanted to, but there wouldn’t have been enough for everyone else to do if I had.”

“Well, congratulations on sharing responsibility,” Samantha put in, not to be outdone.

Amanda ducked back around Vrakzoltret and hugged her mother too. Grinning from ear to ear, she danced and skipped along beside the adults, waving to anyone they passed on either side of the street. She began to hum one of the songs they had sung at church, occasionally interjecting comments into the adults’ discussion when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Vrakzoltret remembered the basic biology lessons Kiftzolkrup had given her, and wondered how the young girl could run around with temperatures this high; she should, in theory, be exhausted and water-deprived fairly quickly. She was very glad of her protective shell, which precluded loss of water through sweating, though it was difficult to counter exhaustion.

As they turned the final corner, Samantha turned to look at her as she walked. “Are you OK, Tret? You’ve not said much.”

Snapping herself out of her reverie, she apologised. “I was in thought,” she explained. “I heard your conversation but did not have anything to contribute; I know very little of human childhood. Indeed, the concept is completely alien to me.”

“Yeah, I saw the interview with the rest of your team. But don’t you even find the idea of childhood the least bit interesting?”

“I admit interest in all areas of human life,” the Insectoid nodded. “I am closer than any other of the People to comprehension of human existence, as I have attempted to emulate your species, but I realise I shall never understand ‘childhood’.” She gazed at Amanda, who was prancing happily ahead of them, singing another song. “When we emerge from the Morph, we are given no time for ‘fun’. We are duty-bound throughout our lives.”

“You feel like you’re missing out,” Samantha concluded.

“No, I simply wish to understand it,” she refuted.

There could be no response to that. Samantha and Greene walked on in silence, as deep in thought as Vrakzoltret had been. Amanda continued running along the street, occasionally spinning in a circle or calling back to the adults.

Gifts with a Message

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 25 December

Amanda bounced through the main entrance to the Davies-Greene household, and stood at the door to the lounge. “Time for presents,” she said as the adults came into the house. “I’ve been a good girl; I haven’t even been into the lounge to see if Santa brought anything yet!”

“Give us five minutes,” Samantha grinned. “I’ve got to check on the turkey.”

“Mandy, perhaps you could assist me with a small task,” Vrakzoltret broke in as Amanda started to protest. “I need to retrieve some items from my container.”

“OK,” Amanda answered, grabbing Vrakzoltret’s hand happily – anything that allowed her to spend more time in the Insectoid’s company could only be good.

Vrakzoltret led the child upstairs, and pulled the container from under her bed. She opened it carefully and took out three packages, neatly wrapped in red and gold paper, with a gold ribbon on each. Kiftzolkrup had been confused when he found her wrapping these presents in the hospital, but he did not comment. The parcels varied in size, and Amanda took a moment to look at each one as it came out of the container.

The first was a fairly flat rectangle, bearing Amanda’s name. Vrakzoltret said she would carry it downstairs herself. She gave the second – a small ovoid bearing Greene’s name – to Amanda to carry, along with the third object, of unidentifiable shape and addressed to Samantha.

“Please place these in the lounge,” Vrakzoltret requested, following the child out of the room and downstairs. Greene came out of the lounge as they reached the bottom of the staircase, and told them to go in. The lounge was decked in green, red and gold garlands, and a huge tree stood in the middle of the room. Around the tree were large numbers of wrapped presents, and gold strands (“tinsel”, Greene had said) covered the branches. Amanda and Vrakzoltret placed their loads with the other gifts and sat down, Amanda on the floor, Vrakzoltret on one of the chairs.

Samantha smiled as they sat down, and asked Amanda to hand out the presents. She rushed around the room, reading labels and giving the gifts to the right people; it was fortunate that Vrakzoltret had told her which of her gifts was for whom, as the Insectoid’s handwriting was nearly unreadable.

Vrakzoltret was surprised to receive several gifts; she unwrapped them carefully, and examined them. Opening the first, she saw that it was a collection of stories within the “Science Fiction” genre.

“I chose that,” Amanda said proudly, looking up from her pile of gifts (she was already halfway through, somehow). “Open the other blue one next. It’s from everyone.”

Vrakzoltret did so. This parcel contained another book – a description of the major events in Australian history. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “This will prove useful in my research.” She placed the two books to one side, and selected another present from the pile – this one from Greene. She examined it for a while, before looking up at him, confused.

“It’s a locket,” he explained. “You place it around your neck, and put a picture inside so you always have it close to you. I have one of Mandy and Sam that I keep with me when I’m not here, so I can always see them when I’m not at home.”

“It is most attractive. How do you obtain images to place inside?”

“You can scan them into the computer and print them on photo paper, then cut out the bit you want,” Greene answered.

The final gift was from Samantha. After pulling the too-tight wrapping from it, she studied it carefully. It was a flat, rectangular box, containing a flat circular object with a hole in the centre. “A… ‘compact disc’,” she guessed, then read the title. It was a collection of Australian folk music.

“CDs are the most common way of distributing hard copies of music,” Samantha explained. “A lot of people download music online, but we prefer to have an actual item rather than just a load of computer data. I don’t know if you have CD players on the Pride, or how you power your vessel…”

“I am certain that we can access this storage medium,” Vrakzoltret reassured her. “The Spost were given the specifications of your CDs and asked our Computer-Gods to create something to read the information contained on them in case it was necessary.”

“Do you want to hear it now, Tret?” Amanda rushed over to her, and Vrakzoltret gave her the CD. She ducked around the tree to the small black tower in the corner, pressed a button and placed the disc on the tray that shot out. She pressed another two buttons, one of which pulled the tray back into the device, the other caused music to come from two squat boxes – audio producers, Vrakzoltret realised – on the ground by the device.

The humans opened their gifts from Vrakzoltret last. Amanda spent a few minutes staring at the grey box she had received before finding a button on one side. She pressed it, and the top came to life, displaying a menu screen. “It is a portable computer from the Pride of the People,” Vrakzoltret explained. “You touch the display to activate options and write. It has been programmed to conform to human characters and specifications. You can use it to store and retrieve information.”

“It’s a personal organiser,” Amanda concluded. “There’s a diary, an address book and loads of stuff! Thank you!”

Greene’s gift was slightly easier to identify. “A model of the Pride,” he grinned. “To scale, as well!” He faced her. “I didn’t think you’d have much use for models of the ship!”

“A model of the Pride is given to each of the People to train us in its layout,” Vrakzoltret answered. “Usually, we dispose of them once we know how to find each area on foot, but I kept mine. It is yours now.”

“Tret, it’s priceless, I can’t, you can’t-” Greene stammered for a moment, before falling into an awed silence.

“I have no further use for it, and thousands exist on the Pride,” she told him. “You will treasure it more than I. I will teach you how to use its features later.”

As Samantha unwrapped her present, she allowed a smile to play across her face. Clearly, Greene had told the Insectoid that she was a nurse, for inside, she found a scale model of an Insectoid, complete with colour-changing shell. “Let me guess, the Kift use these?”

“Yes; Kiftzolkrup requested an additional model for me when Vrakzolkopp completed his initial mission on Earth. He collected it when they returned for a second mission.” The specifics of the assault were classified, so she did not elaborate. “I cannot help you to use it, but Kiftzolkrup will teach you about it when you have time.”

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Greene commented. “You don’t give us this sort of thing and then fly off into the night.”

“You are correct; there is much I have not told you, but you must wait for several more cycles before I can discuss it with you,” she told him, glad that her shell was hidden beneath her dress – it was flashing all sorts of colour combinations at the moment, and there was no way she could bring it under control.

“Then we won’t ask,” Samantha said firmly. “The turkey should be done now,” she added, standing.

“You need a hand?” Greene half-stood, but Samantha waved his offer aside.

“I’m only putting the vegetables on, but I could use some help taking everything into the dining room in a bit,” she told him. “You could do some drinks, though.”

“Right,” Greene answered, standing. “Tret, you probably don’t know what half our drinks are, but we have wine, spirits, beers or non-alcoholic stuff. And no, Mandy, you may not have alcohol.”

Amanda looked up from her pile of toys and games, pouting. “Wasn’t gonna ask,” she said. “Can I have an orange juice?” Seeing her uncle’s withering glare, she added, “Please?”

“I would also like an orange juice, please,” Vrakzoltret asked. “Alcohol is a greater intoxicant to Insectoids than to humans; I have no wish to become inebriated.”

“OK, two orange juices coming right up,” Greene said, leaving the room.

Amanda grinned at Vrakzoltret. “I didn’t know you like orange juice!”

“Oranges are similar to forbrusk-fruit on the Pride, which are extremely healthy,” Vrakzoltret answered. “They contain chemicals necessary for our shells to change colour, among other things.” She had been given a great deal of nutritional information by Kiftzolkrup when she accepted Greene’s invitation.

Placing her current toy on the floor, Amanda stood and walked over to Vrakzoltret. “What colour is your shell normally? How does it change colour?”

“Normally? Do you mean in its unaltered form?” The girl nodded. “Then it is the same colour as my arms and head,” Vrakzoltret answered. She recalled the lengthy explanation Kiftzolkrup had given her about how shell colours were modified, but without fully understanding it herself, there was no way she could explain it to anyone else. “The shell changes colour in reaction to the brain’s commands,” she said simply.

Remembering something her teacher had said in class, Amanda asked, “But is it an electrochemical process?”

Before Vrakzoltret could ask what a ‘nel-lekk-tro-kem-kul’ process was, Greene returned, carrying a tray with two orange juices and a non-alcoholic beer. “That’s a long word for you to use,” he said, gazing at his niece for a moment before giving her one of the juices. “And yes, most processes to do with the brain are electrochemical, whatever the species.” He handed Vrakzoltret the other juice and sat down in the chair beside her.

Amanda nodded her understanding and pulled a small stool from under one of the low surfaces in the room, dragging it next to her uncle. “I know lots of long words,” she told him, grinning. “Miss Andrews says I’ve got a big cavalry.”

“Vocabulary,” Greene supplied, seeing Vrakzoltret’s attempt to look puzzled. “The cavalry are soldiers on horses, Mandy,” he smiled.

“I like horseys,” Amanda grinned happily. “If I have a big cavalry, I must have a lot of horseys!”

“Miss Andrews probably said you have a big vocabulary, not cavalry,” Greene said patiently.

“But I have a big cavalry too,” she said knowingly. “Wanna see?”

“Go on then,” Greene sighed. To Vrakzoltret, he added, “This ought to be good.”

Amanda rushed out of the room and came back a few minutes later carrying two soft toys in the shape of horses, and a collection of pictures and drawings of ponies. Proudly, she said, “See? Big cavalry!”

By now, Vrakzoltret knew that she should just play along with Amanda’s imagination. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

“I’d better go help Sam,” Greene said, departing once more.

Vrakzoltret turned her attention back to Amanda. “Do you give names to your ‘cavalry’?”

“Yes,” Amanda answered, then proceeded to reel off a list, showing each to the Insectoid individually. “Which one’s your favourite?”

“I have no way to judge them conclusively,” Vrakzoltret answered. When it was clear that Mandy found this unacceptable, she made a show of considering the pictures for a few minutes. “This gold-coloured horse is my favourite,” she said at length, selecting one of the stuffed toys. “Gold shells show pride, and my vessel is called the Pride of the People, so it reminds me of my vessel.”

Amanda nodded sagely. “That’s a good reason,” she told her. “I don’t have a favourite, because I don’t want to upset the others,” she asserted.

Wondering how it was possible to upset a soft toy or picture, Vrakzoltret said, “I saw some humans sitting on the backs of horses in transmissions. Are you able to do that?”

“No, I want to learn to ride, but Mum won’t let me,” the girl frowned. “I have to take my horses back upstairs before dinner,” she added. Turning to the stuffed toy Vrakzoltret had selected, she said, “Come on, Binky, let’s get everyone together,” then piled up her pictures, and, dragging the toys behind her, rushed out of the room at full speed.

Pax Populi

Geneva, Switzerland, Earth, 3 January

Vrakzolfix stepped out of the small auxiliary craft and spent a second gazing about him. A large crowd had gathered to see him land, and hundreds waved banners of peace. He walked sedately down the red carpet that had been placed along his route, followed by Vrakzoltret, Kiftzolkrup and Vrakzolfutt. From the other direction, he saw President Chang approaching, followed by Maris, Garcia and Greene.

He nodded to President Chang as they reached a platform in the middle of the square at the same moment, and indicated that he was ready to begin. President Chang extended a hand to tell the Governor to proceed, so he climbed the three steps to the microphone. Looking about himself, he realised how nervous he was. He glanced at his entourage, then began to speak to the waiting people – both on Earth and on the Vessel.

“Thank you for the warm reception, both now and when we first landed in Australia. The past few weeks have been unusual, to say the least; you will have seen some of the events that have lead to the current situation on your newscasts. To summarise, however, elements exist within both cultures that would rather not see any further contact between our peoples. They were content at first to wait for us to just leave, but recent events have forced their hand.

“Just over three Earth weeks ago, a virus was launched against the computers on Earth and on our vessel. With assistance from our human friends in Russia, we were able to purge the virus, but not before it awakened an ancient program, designed by our ship’s original builders to commence colonisation procedures should we ever find a planet upon which we could live.

“Earth’s computer scientists have discovered that this process was initiated once before, and at the time, great rivalries erupted amongst the People, which led to the program’s deactivation. The full details have been made available on the Pride, and will be made available on Earth also. The outcome of this release of information is that a small group of the People decided to act against the common good. We were able to defeat them, but not before some of their group left the ship and came to Earth, in search of allies in their quest to force us away from this solar system.

“They found them. On the same night that the virus was removed from our computers, two individuals – one human and one of the People – were assaulted by members of a group known as the Human Freedom Brigade. Their goal is to sever ties between our peoples before they can be created. A joint operation between the People and Earth’s government was initiated to capture several of their members; from them, we learned of a plan to prevent today’s events.

“In addition to this operation, we also captured or killed many of the Spostzol – those among my people responsible for the events I have described. However, at least thirty of them remain at large, as do most of the Human Freedom Brigade. We pledge that we will find the Spostzol and ensure that they no longer threaten Earth or the People. In order to accomplish this, I have proposed to President Chang that formal diplomatic relations be opened between our peoples, specifically an exchange of ambassadors.” He turned and nodded to President Chang, who mounted the other set of stairs.

“Thank you High Governor,” President Chang began when he reached the microphone. “For the past few weeks, we have forged informal ties that bind us together. Earth welcomes your proposal of an ambassadorial exchange, as we will welcome any of your People who wish to live on Earth. Our first Ambassador to the People will be Ambassador Sarah Maris of Israel. My apologies to the Israeli government for snatching such a great ambassador from you,” he grinned. The crowd laughed briefly, so he paused for a moment, and the High Governor stepped forward, along with Vrakzoltret.

“You already know Vrakzoltret as Speaker of the People,” Vrakzolfix answered. “It is my honour to introduce her once more, though on this occasion as First Ambassador to Earth.” He paused for a moment, allowing Vrakzoltret to receive the acclaim she deserved. “There has been much speculation about the future of the People on Earth. I am now able to inform you in greater detail about the repercussions of the last few Cycles,” he said, waiting for the noise to die down slightly. “The Spostzol were responsible for the maintenance of our computers and technology, although we did not fully realise this until recently. Therefore, we cannot be certain that we will reach another solar system before they fail completely, and it would be wrong to request Earth’s assistance to learn how our technology works. A few Cycles ago, the People voted on how to proceed. The result of the vote was that we should attempt colonisation of Mars.

“I thank you on behalf of the People for your kind offer to reside on Earth, but in many ways, this would come too quickly for both our cultures. Instead, I would like to invite Earth to join us in our attempt to colonise Mars. We shall depart in sixty cycles.” The decision had been taken to remain in Earth orbit for two full months, both to establish the new embassy in Australia, and to avoid Earth’s many festivals that occurred at this time every year.

“We will work out the details of that arrangement over the next few weeks, and make an announcement then,” President Chang answered. “For now, thank you once again for agreeing to this formal alliance.” After shaking hands, the two leaders dismounted the podium, returning along the paths by which they had arrived.

***

Vrakzoltret was silent throughout the presentations. She had noticed the presence of Lieutenant Greene among the human party; he had returned to duty a few days ago, and they had not had time to converse. She was puzzled by his presence, but she had no time to consider the situation, as she rapidly found herself called to join the High Governor on the podium. She smiled and held her hand high in what Greene had told her was a ‘Wave’ (clearly a reference to the up-and-down motion of the sea), waiting for the noise to die down.

When the People reached their craft, she squatted in the seat by the High Governor. The posture felt incredibly strange to her after spending so much time sitting in human chairs, and she had to struggle to hold her shell, since she had relaxed her grip whilst wearing human clothing. She had even had trouble using her native language at first. ‘Total immersion’ was the phrase used by Dr. Garcia, whom she had met briefly when the human researchers returned to Earth during the last Cycle. It had, she reflected, been fun, but she looked forward to resuming her duties. Though what her duties were as an Ambassador, she wasn’t quite sure; presumably, they were similar to her duties as a Speaker of the People.

“We approach our destination,” the pilot announced a few minutes into their flight. Glancing out of the observation portal she saw the blue sky of Earth. Straining to view beneath her, she saw only dust. The craft descended, finally landing at a human military base – Greene’s base, she realised. The door opened, and Vrakzolfix motioned for her to exit before him, which she did.

“Madam Ambassador,” President Chang said as she stepped out of the vehicle. Apparently, his entourage had taken a similar trip, though by land. “I realise you have spent the last few weeks here, but on behalf of Earth, I welcome you again.” He turned to the High Governor. “High Governor, thank you for providing an escort for the Ambassador; it is our pleasure to host her whilst she is on our planet.”

Vrakzolfix nodded, bowing slightly with his legs. “I am certain that she will do well on Earth,” he told the President, before turning to Vrakzoltret. “Ambassador Vrakzoltret of the People, I give you leave to remain on Earth as long as your duties require it, and to represent the People in all communication with the humans of Earth.” He extended all four arms, then returned to the small vessel.

For the third time in three weeks, Vrakzoltret watched the Pride’s auxiliary craft take off without her. This time, though, she was – at least for a day or so – truly the only one of her people on the planet. Yet she was not alone. She pulled her mouth into a smile as she looked toward the humans. President Chang whispered something to Lieutenant Greene, who stepped forward to join her.

“Congratulations, Ambassador,” he said, placing a hand on her shell. “I guess your first task is to choose an embassy staff?”

“Yes,” Vrakzoltret answered. “I plan to ask for assistance from Ambassador Maris before she departs with the Vessel, so that I know how to run an embassy. I confess that I am uncertain how to proceed.”

“You will be granted a military escort for formal diplomatic visits,” President Chang told her as he joined them. “We have a possible air squadron already.” Vrakzoltret took the piece of paper he offered her.

She read through the words on the paper, attempting to pronounce each name in her head. There were a few statistics on each pilot that she did not pretend to understand. The bit that interested her the most, though, was the name at the top of the list, and the rank by the name. “Squadron Leader… Paul Greene,” she read. “You are to be promoted?” She looked at Greene, who grinned and blushed. “The squadron is acceptable, Mr. President,” she said, handing the paper back.

“Then I ask leave to allow the Squadron Leader to escort you to your embassy, so that you can settle in,” President Chang smiled. She nodded, and he walked back into the military building behind them.

Vrakzoltret was silent for a few moments, gazing at Greene. Then she said, “You knew.”

“About you becoming Ambassador?” She nodded. “No, but I knew the result of the vote. I was quite surprised to be offered this promotion, but apparently the High Governor suggested me for the position. I think I know why he did that, now.”

“I… may have mentioned that you are a superb pilot.” It was Vrakzoltret’s turn to blush – or, at least, turn her shell purple. "You deserve this promotion."

“Thanks – it's an honour to be working with you,” he answered. “We’d better head for the Embassy. Or, at least, your temporary Embassy in Parliament House,” he added. “The new Embassy will be built on the site of the Spaceport, where you first landed.”

She nodded her understanding, and followed Greene out to a waiting car. They both got in – Greene at the wheel, Vrakzoltret beside him. This vehicle was not as long as the limousine she had travelled in before, but it was just as comfortable. She pulled the seatbelt across her and fastened it, carefully avoiding messing up her bandages. She watched out of the windows as cars streamed past on the road by the airbase.

“Have you given any thought to your staff yet?” Greene’s comment broke into her reverie.

“I am the first Ambassador of the People in known history,” she answered. “I have no idea how to run an embassy. As I said earlier, I will ask Ambassador Maris for assistance; I’ve already asked to meet with her.” She glanced out of the window at the streets as they rolled by. Only a few humans were in the area; the sea of people present at the joint announcement had dispersed, save for a few stragglers.

***

Canberra, Australia, Earth, 7 January

GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Embassy Staff Required

The new Embassy of the People in Australia, Earth, seeks to appoint Secondary Ambassadors, Healers, Advisors and Support Staff. All staff-members are to be approved by Vrakzoltret and Spostbeltakk of the People. Please view the attached documents for position requirements; apply in writing to Spostbeltakk, Chief of Staff, Embassy of the People, Capital Hill, Canberra, Australia, Earth.

“Very well written,” Greene told Vrakzoltret as he perused the information packs. “Had any applications yet?”

“The packs were only released two Earth hours ago,” Vrakzoltret answered. “I do not expect any responses for a few Cycles; a move to Earth is a large step for any of us. Most will not wish to leave the safety of the main colony.” Her shell colour flickered briefly, but returned to blue too fast for Greene to determine the new colour. “I believe Spostbeltakk was surprised to receive my invitation to join me here; ordinarily a Zol would receive that type of position, but she proved her leadership and diplomatic abilities on the Pride and on Earth, if the reports I have read are accurate.”

“At least she accepted the post,” Greene reminded her.

“I’m still concerned that the staff – at least, any Zol among the Insectoids on staff – will refuse to accept instructions from a Bel,” Vrakzoltret mused. “Perhaps I should recommend her for a caste promotion. Ordinarily, the Zol can only promote members of the same caste, but the Spost have no Zol now. Their caste will need to be rebuilt or subsumed by other castes… However, that is a discussion for our government.”

“Couldn’t you create an Ambassadorial Caste?”

“The Embassy’s staff structure will be based upon our society. We have ranks, castes and positions; technically anyone can hold an ambassadorial position, but they still remain members of their normal caste and rank,” she explained. “But the new Spost caste is not my concern. I need only consider our relationship with Earth.”

“If she’s as good a leader as you say, then she probably deserves a promotion,” Greene advised. After a few moments of silence he added, “You told me once that caste promotions only ever occur under extreme circumstances. You said yourself that the Spost caste must be rebuilt. We know that the People are going to change because of the last few weeks – the change is already starting. Earth has also begun to change. If circumstances require it, you should be prepared to lend guidance to that change.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the Ambassador answered, placing her stack of papers in her desk. “I’ll consider it tomorrow, but our duty shift is about to end now.”

She pushed herself up out of the now-familiar posture and walked out of the building, side by side with Greene.


***END***

[Jim Gamma]

OK, so this was clearly intended as the first in a series. That final segment is supposed to set up the next few books, with more discoveries about the People to come. But I wonder what people think of this? I have had some very good feedback from Rick on the original version, and some from a manager at work saying that some of the writing is a little awkward - that can be fixed. I'm still not terribly sure about the ending... seems a little twee in some respects to have the whole Christmas thing - but then, this WAS intended to be an exploration of human culture through looking at the Insectoid culture.

Thoughts would be most welcome!