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PART 1

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CHAPTER 1: A Question of Speed

The Bekel, ship’s time/date: 403.374.7.58.949 After Departure. Earth time: 19 Nov 2091.

“KAYLAR, RAISE SHIELDS! And keep us hidden from Voth fleet scanners.”

“Force shields raised, Rilla,” Kaylar reported. “Scanner jamming already on.

Rilla Dekkutz acknowledged that with a palmraise and stared into the simtank projection between the forward sight-ports as she assessed the tactical situation.

“Nam – switch orbit now!” The Bekel would be vulnerable to visual detection during this manoeuvre, but the new orbit was the best defence this planetary configuration offered. A white hologrammatic dot marked the Bekel’s position between Declain’s moons Bacar and Ammax, as they swung about their common centre of gravity. Bacar was nearest the planet as their orbit switched from it to Ammax.

On the far side of the planet the larger third moon circled further out. Below heavily-cratered Grus, the Voth space station lay in low Declain orbit. The eighteen red dots distributed along its four arms marked the Voth fleet.

“Missile incoming – the Voth must have visually spotted us!” Kaylar said.

“Computer, estimate time to approach and range of missile and nearest crawler.”

[Missile approach in two hundredths and closing. Range, one thousand tondors. Crawler approach in three hundredths.]

“We may be faster,” Rilla observed, “but their weapons would seem to have greater range. And computer, the further crawler?”

[Approach in five hundredths.]

“Raise force shields and begin a countdown.” Closer combat conditions would have been more dangerous; but Voth vessels weren’t nicknamed “crawlers” for nothing, though they could manoeuvre the craft by running an electric current through the diffractive material of their solar sails – as they’d learned during their alliance with the Kiai.

Rilla noticed the blue missile marker in the simtank as two “crawler”-class vessels – the Voth ships – crept towards the Bekel. External sensor data showed the missile followed a parabolic curve towards their position. The countdown sounded in the background. Rilla raised her arm to punch the siren panel by instinct, then stopped herself. The only crew onboard are here in the control room.

The nearest ship had broken docking formation from the space station, while the furthest approached from the Kiai system nearby, and paralleled the Bekel’s course. Either craft could have spotted them, but it was most likely the crawler from the Kiai system; it was in motion, and some distance out, so would have a different view.

“Evasive manoeuvre, Nam. Ready missiles, Kaylar – fire on my order and resume shielding immediately. We’ll let their missile get close enough that they think it’ll hit us, then fire and dive around the back of Ammax, so we disappear visually. Tambur, Nam – as we fire, take us between Bacar and Ammax again. Bacar will shield us from the Voth fleet, and Ammax from sensors on these crawlers.”

Each woman signed their understanding with a palmraise.

The second crawler coasted without firing. Out of range, Rilla thought. Neither’s near enough for real damage. Her gaze found icy Bacar and rocky, grey-brown Ammax in the simtank. “We’ll proceed with caution.”

She surveyed her skeleton crew. Nam Garangey sat at the nav/com column, head concealed by the navigator’s headset, legs astride her chair to accommodate the child which had moved into the birth position only hours before. Vinta Pril monitored the environmental controls for the Bekel, plus the life signs from the secret sleep-chamber at its heart, and had also taken on the Science Op and Comms functions. Her pregnancy was less advanced than Nam’s, but Rilla couldn’t mistake the swell of her stomach, nor the careful embrace of the chair that enfolded her. Tambur Dar, the pilot, shared scanner ops with Kaylar. Her baby won’t be born for another half-year. Kaylar Durana’s fingers hovered over the weapons console as she awaited the instruction to fire. She was also responsible for scanner jamming and damage reports. Her pregnancy’s duration had been confirmed just days ago, but all Zarduthi clothing had inbuilt dimensional instability, and would adapt to the coming changes.

Good job too! Rilla thought. Lastly, she laid her hands across her own abdomen. Her greenish leather tunic stretched over it, as did Nam’s and Vinta’s. Beneath her combat leathers, she felt the fine down rise on her skin as the child within her grew, just as when she’d carried her son, Ayar, fourteen years and more before. Her command console also had the engineering console switched through it. Resilient programming and back-up capacity ensured any functions could be switched through to any other console.

The countdown continued in the background. [Missile approach in one hundredth,] the computer informed her. [Nearest crawler will enter firing range in two hundredths, furthest in forty-seven thousandths.]

Rilla turned back to her weapons operative. “Ready to hit that missile, Kaylar?”

“I am.” She allowed herself a grin as she tracked the approach of the missile in the simtank. “Hold…hold…Go!”

The amber panel flashed to tell Rilla the shields had dropped to allow the release of their missile; the flash from the sight-port confirmed it. She tracked its lime green dot in the simtank. As the Bekel swept round Ammax a greater detonation told her their missile had destroyed the incoming one.

[Approach of nearest crawler in one hundredth. Entering firing range. Approach of furthest in forty-five thousandths.]

“Again, Kaylar. Target it!”

“I have.” The flash of the release followed her words.

The Bekel slipped between the moons to follow the rocky outline. Ammax protected the ship from the force of the explosion. The amber panel went dark as their missile hit its target. But another lightburst brought Rilla’s hand up to shield her eyes.

[Approach of nearest crawler estimated at twenty thousandths. Exiting firing range and passing around Ammax in opposite direction. Second crawler’s approach in forty-four thousandths.]

 “I missed.” Kaylar locked gaze with Rilla, eyes wide with shock. “How could I have missed?”

“The other crawler took our missile out?” suggested Tambur.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Rilla said. “We should be able to hit it as we round the limb of Ammax.” The Zarduthi soul awaits the best chance, she reminded herself.

Ammax slid into view.

[Crawler within firing range.]

“Hit it, Kaylar!” Rilla called.

Kaylar’s fingers flickered over the weapons controls.

Light erupted against sightports. A greater detonation followed, silent in space.

Rilla leaned towards the simtank again. “You got it – well done!” The other crawler had disappeared too. “Hmm. I don’t like that. Could you have got both of them?”

“No hope,” Kaylar said. “Out of range.”

“It must have gone round the far side of Bacar where the simtank can’t pick it up.”

“Playing us at our own game.”

“They can’t catch us. Take us out of the system, Tambur. Head for the yellow star system at 346 degrees.” Rilla pointed into the simtank. “We’ll lure it out after us – make it look as if we’re escaping, then destroy it.”

*

Omol Fadaifa’s quarters, The Kazid.

Omol Fadaifa stretched, then folded his arms around Ghaneem Takaren again. “That was go-o-od.”

“Mmm.” Her hand was at his groin, and her mouth curved in mischief. “When can we do it again?”

“You’re insatiable, woman!” But he grinned back. “What d’you want from me, a child?” He watched her eyes, as round and dark as his own. “You’ll need a breeding token first!”

The smile faded from Ghaneem’s face. “Too soon!” she snorted. “I’ve just settled in onboard the Kazid. I don’t fancy being left behind to look after the children while you gallivant off to war. I want to fight beside you for a while before we do that.”

“I’m glad,” Omol smiled. “I’m not ready for parenthood, either. Not just yet.” He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “I’d better get a move on. I’m due back on-shift in fifteen thousandths.” Omol threw back the bedcover, swung his legs over the side of the bunk, and headed for the steam shower.

Much less than a hundredth later, Omol settled into his com/chair and allowed it to contour itself around him. The chair moved with him so that his body was always supported, the instrument readouts legible. He checked them in the console simcube.

Everything was fine. He relaxed as the ship approached the Declaini system.

*

Nam looked sideways at Rilla. “That system’s next in the Voth advance.”

“Yes,” Rilla agreed. “Eren says they’ve developed a form of spaceflight based on chemical fuel. He thought they might assist – if necessary.”

“I’ll lay in a course to get us into hyperdrive when we leave the Declaini system,” Nam said, “and lock it in.”

But as they emerged from between the two moons a percussion rocked the Bekel.

“Damage report, Kaylar?”

“Tank split – display damage. I’ll share it to your console, Rilla.”

Rilla craned forwards. The large-scale three-dimensional schematic of the Bekel showed no damage, thanks to the force-shields, but ahead lay the second crawler. She felt the blood drain from her face. How did they get here so fast? They surely can’t use a hyperdrive inside this system’s gravity well – can they?

Her hand strayed to her abdomen as a Voth commander replaced the simtank’s hologrammatic representations. The image was two-dimensional video, and static punctuated the radio signal; but the creature’s apparent lack of sensory organs of any kind sent a shock through her. “Identification immediately, Zarduthi ship.”

“Answer them,” Nam signalled across the control room. “I’ve nearly finished!”

The mushy metallic timbre that issued from the tank was a simulation, as Rilla knew from the clan’s encounter with the Voth on Kiai. The Bekel had its own translator device; it could amplify the electronic signals but couldn’t clean them up much.

“Voth ship, this is the Bekel on a routine patrol,” Rilla replied. “Identify yourself.”

“If Zarduthi ship is Bekel it must know that Voth ships lack individual designations,” the Voth grated. “And if on routine patrol, why destroy one of our ships?”

“It attacked us first.”

 “By whose authority is Bekel on patrol?”

“A Zarduthi needs no authority to patrol!”

“Nor Voth.” There was no trace of emotion in the synthesised voice, nor even a quiver of the coarse hairs that protruded between the creature’s armour-plates. “Heave to and surrender, Bekel.” The Voth paused only to add, “Immediately, or Voth will fire.”

“We have complied,” Rilla said. “We await instructions.” And she cut the contact. I’ll message Omol. Voth ships don’t have hyperspace technology, so they rely on radio and video comms, although we gave the Kiai leadership hyperspace communications. Hopefully they’ve kept it quiet. “Nam, get me Omol.”

Nam’s fingers flew over the commgrid panel.

“Omol, this is Rilla Dekkutz of the Bekel.”

Omol’s holographic image filled one half of the simtank as he answered. “Shulai, Rilla, are you well?”

“We all are, but we’ve had an incident with a Voth crawler, and we aren’t sure what happened.” Rilla explained about the reappearance of the second Voth ship that had blocked their exit. “We need to enter hyperspace – how soon can you provide a diversion?”

*

Omol surveyed his control room. Bebb Jerda, Engineer, Faril Prazg on weapons, Tangar Derren, his navigator/pilot, and Jarane Hebor, comms op, were all intent on their consoles. The atmosphere of calm belied what Omol knew waited for them out in the void. His muscles tensed for battle.

Within a few thousandths, Jarane Hebor hurried over to him. “Omol, a formation of six Voth crawlers have left the Declain space station. They’re headed this way, though nowhere near – yet.”

“Thanks. Track them, will you? The Bekel too. Faril, keep your weapons console on standby.” Omol glanced into the tank as he crossed to Bebb. “Computer, how soon to ETA at Declain?”

[Fifteen hundredths.]

“And to the Bekel’s current position?”

[Seven tenths.]

“Eren would have told them to get out at the first sign of trouble,” Bebb said.

Omol stood and considered for a moment. “They need our help for that. Computer, zoom simtank in on the Bekel.” He leaned over the simtank. “Replay the battle with the crawlers.”

The closer view allowed Omol to see what had happened. Scanner jamming hid their position on the commgrid, but a crawler’s red telltale barred the Bekel’s way. “How could this have happened?” he asked. “Split tank, replay Bekel battle sequence.”

As the replay started again in one half of the holotank Omol brought every scrap of concentration to bear on it. The battle between the crawler and the Bekel held no surprises until the Zarduthi ship passed between the Declaini moonlets, then the second crawler disappeared in a flash of light. Shortly after, it reappeared ahead of the Bekel, just as it emerged from its hiding place.

“That last shot should have destroyed the second crawler,” Bebb observed, “but…if they have a version of the hyperdrive they could have avoided it –”

“It can’t be the hyperdrive,” Omol said. “Play it over, half-speed.”

The sequence repeated in slow-mo in the simtank. The first crawler exploded with the same impressive lightshow. The second closed in. The Bekel’s missile sped towards it. The crawler disappeared in the burst of light that ballooned around it. The Bekel chased freedom between the two moonlets, and won – till the Voth reappeared to bar their way.

Faril spread his hands in puzzlement. “Somehow that second crawler deflected or destroyed every missile the Bekel fired, yet they should have been dead hits. I don’t understand it.”

“Nor me,” Omol said. “They must have rigged a force shield on the solar sail to deflect the missiles. Jarane, message Rilla to warn her.”

“On it. But how did they move so fast?”

“It’s not the hyperdrive. There was no second flash,” Omol insisted.

“True,” Bebb said. “Let’s help them, Omol. My sister Kaylar’s –”

“I know. And they haven’t got a hyperdrive. You know what would happen if we used our drive within a solar system.”

Bebb shifted into the soft language to denote the subjunctive mood. “Maybe they’ve found a way to avoid tidal forces tearing them apart.”

“There’s no known way to do that.” Omol turned the possibilities over in his mind. “But you know Kiai engineering…what if they’ve upgraded the crawlers to travel faster?”

Bebb shrugged. “It’s possible…Look!” He pointed into the simtank.

A shuttle left the crawler, approached the Bekel and docked at one airlock.

“What are they doing?” asked Bebb.

*

“What are they doing?” Nam crossed the Control Room to stand beside Rilla.

Rilla peered into the simtank. Holographic cameras and sensors embedded in and around the hull fed a composite image of the Bekel, paced by the Voth crawler. “I’m not sure, Nam.”

But as the shuttle backed away from their airlock it left a bubble-like construction that nestled like a Valdorian symbiote against the deadlocked hatch.

Our only experience of fighting the Voth was on Kiai. It wasn’t pleasant. “Check hand weapons, everyone,” Rilla said. “They’ll board us.”

The weapons check completed, Rilla turned back to the simtank. One of the clustered internal images showed the hole in the clanship’s hull that gaped back at her where the airlock had been. “Our ship!” she exclaimed, and clutched Nam’s wrist.

She zoomed the simtank view in. They used no cutting equipment. Instead, a group of Voth stood by the airlock. Plate armour displaced, feeding pseudopod extended, a Voth had already stripped part of the outer skin.

Shock jerked Rilla back in her chair. Surely they can’t eat metal?

It moved to work on the next layer.

“Prepare for boarding,” the Voth commander ground out.

Acknowledgement was unnecessary; Rilla cut the contact. “Voth khranen!” Rilla whispered. The Voth had been tagged as bloodsuckers ever since Kiai – with good reason. But none of them had realised the Voth could devour metal.

She squashed her anger and fear and played the column before her. The Zarduthi defeat on Kiai had been as hard to accept as it had been complete. She knew her duty. Her orders were to protect the ship, the children, herself and the other pregnant women and their babies. “Slow them down for as long as possible. Computer, close all internal doors.” Her voice was as incisive as steel. “Prepare to fire on the crawler, Kaylar. Target the main body, not the solar sail.” It wouldn’t dislodge the bubble-craft but they couldn’t fire on that – the ships disruptors could only fire on external targets.

[All doors sealed.]

“Missiles targeted,” Kaylar confirmed. “Force shields in place.”

Nam’s talons clicked over the instrument panel. “I’ve set up the ship to auto-initiate hyperdrive at the entry point.”

We normally only use the auto-initiate function in case of potential destruction, or the loss of the crew. It was Rilla’s turn to give the palmraise to Kaylar, Nam and Tambur. She glanced at the simtank. The Voth had widened the hole in the door to start on the third skin. Beyond it stretched black space, studded with stars. They could see it through the bubblecraft. Rilla’s hand went to her belt holster. “I want that crawler destroyed this time,” she told Kaylar. “Fire!”

A flash came. Clouds of matter spread out in the simtank, echoed in real-time beyond the sightports.

“Nice shooting, Kaylar!”

In the simtank the Bekel swung out of its orbit. Chunks of debris from the crawler spun end over end towards them, swatted into further freespin as they impacted with the force-shields. Although the shields acted as shock absorbers, a major impact on them had the potential to do minor damageor force them off-course.

The ship rocked. But the Voth bubblecraft remained attached.

*

“Boarding them, then. But why?” Omol turned the possibilities over aloud. “Either they want prisoners, perhaps for ransom or exchange, or –”

“Or food, more likely, from what we saw on Kiai!” Bebb’s tone was sharp.

Omol acknowledged that with a dip of his head. “Or…they’re after something about the ship itself. The drive, perhaps.”

“Why would they want the Bekel if they already have a version of the hyperdrive?” Bebb parried.

“That’s the reason why I don’t think they have one,” Omol countered. “Computer, estimate speed of Voth ship during manoeuvres.”

Although fast, the estimate wasn’t even close to hyperdrive speed. It was a maximum obtainable speed within the confines of a solar system gravity well, limited by the short distance involved, the speed at which the operator could initiate the solar sail system, and proximity to planets and satellites.

“They’re faster than we thought, though slower than our ion drive in a system,” Omol commented.

“I hope not!”

“You saw how they shot round that satellite. Let’s play that over.”

Omol replayed the sequence again. This time, he saw it. A third crawler left the space station just before the Bekel fired on the second. It swooped towards the moons of Declain to confront the clanship. He could imagine Rilla’s surprise.

“But could they always travel that fast, or have they been upgraded?” Bebb asked. “We only fought them on the ground on Kiai.”

“Does that matter? We need to be aware of it in dealing with them now. Simtank, revert to one screen.”

In the simtank, the squadron of crawlers continued their approach.

“The Bekel needs assistance,” Omol said. “If we provide a distraction, they can leave and use their hyperdrive once out of the system. Computer, how long for Voth digestive fluids to dissolve the Bekel’s airlock door?” He raised his hands, palms outwards in the warding gesture.

[It dissolved the first skin in five thousandths. All three skins will take fifteen thousandths. Less if more Voth join in, but workspace is limited.]

“ETA with the ion drive at full?”

[Thirteen thousandths.]

“A slight time advantage to us. But it’ll be tight for us to prevent the Voth boarding the Bekel.” Omol glanced at the simtank and sighed, “View from above.” He crossed to the tank. “Hell’s seven demons!”

From that angle the distance between the two vessels was not foreshortened as in the previous view. Yet the Voth shuttle looked almost as close to the Bekel as they were. Omol made his decision. “We must help them. Take us to them, Tangar. We’ll distract the Voth so the Bekel can get away. Is that course ready?”

“Yes.” Tangar had his pilot’s headset in place.

“Then let’s move in.”

[Ion drive initiated at top speed.] The Kazid responded to Tangar’s new course.

In the simtank, the crawler squadron headed towards their exact position. “The Voth craft has seen us.”

[Craft within weapons range.]

Omol locked gaze with his weapons operative. “Faril – ready missiles.”

“Battle-ready, Omol,” Faril reported.

Omol prepared to evade the crawlers. He assumed they’d force-rigged their solar sails; without that any such ship would be crippled. But he knew better than to interfere with his navigator’s thought processes. He watched the simtank. The closest crawler now lay below the Bekel, its bows and solar sail facing away from them. The perfect position.

“Fire now!”

The missile flew. The crawler spun into oblivion.

“Duck and dive, Tangar!” The success of this fighting strategy depended on how fast Tangar could act on the co-ordinates for the crawlers’ positions each time, and gave them just thousandths to reposition the Kazid while hidden by their jamming system from Voth scanners.

He checked the simtank. They approached a large planet with no obvious star, further from their next objective.

The second crawler fell into the trap.

“Fire now, Faril!”

Their missile sliced space, a lime green dot in the simtank. The crawler detonated.

Two down, four to go.

“They won’t expect us to approach the Bekel again,” Bebb muttered.

“Change tactics – fly behind and below them,” Omol said.

The ion drive cut in, closer to the Declaini system. Another crawler lay above them.

“Fire, Faril!” Omol ordered. “They won’t expect an attack from below.”

Again the lightshow blazed as the crawler died.

Don’t get over-confident. These moves won’t work forever, Omol thought. “We should change tactics again – Bebb, Tangar, we’ll use the Saridonai manoeuvre.”

“Acknowledged.”

Omol cut the lighting on the starboard side of the ship that faced the explosion.

Bebb allowed the starboard side of the Kazid to sink, as if shrapnel had damaged it.

In the simtank the crawlers’ red tell-tales approached. “Take us out of here, Tangar!” Omol ordered. “Far enough away that they can’t track us.”

“Will do.”

In the simtank their white tell-tale zoomed nearer the stellar system they’d seen before. Between solar systems they could use the hyperdrive. “Now take us back, use the previous manoeuvre,” Omol said as the three red tell-tales clustered together and changed course.

“Zooch,” Tangar acknowledged with a feral grin, as he zipped them back into the fight above a fourth crawler.

“Fire, Faril!”

The crawler burst apart like a squashed insect.

“Good one!” Omol couldn’t exclude satisfaction from his voice. “Now we need to deal with the last two and get back to the Bekel, Tangar.”

“Course laid in for that one-planet system at 280 degrees.” The ship moved. “Have they followed?”

“Yep. Slowly. They may suspect a trap –”

“Keep going. We’ll go behind the system and come out above them again.”

“Good thinking, Omol.” They moved towards the single-planet system.

“Omol,” Faril interjected, “they’ve fired at us.”

“Evade and intercept missile.”

As before, Tangar manoeuvred them to come out above their prey.

“Arm ship’s disruptors.”

“Now, Faril!” Omol exclaimed.

Faril targeted the fifth crawler. Their missile still spun towards the crawler below. “Gotcha!” Faril punched the air. The crawler’s solar sail and half the ship detonated.

But the explosion was louder than it should have been. Faril groaned. “We’ve been hit. Looks like they’ve played us at our own game this time. Their weapons op learned to anticipate where we’d strike next, Bebb.”

“We lost the bet this time. Damage?” Omol was calm to the point of detachment.

“Starboard airlock hatch, the medical centre, education centre, hydroponics, some of the living quarters, the recreation area and gym, and the reactor – all areas sealed off against decompression,” Faril reported. “But shields and power levels are way down. We don’t have enough power to enter hyperdrive or evade further attack.”

“Conceal ourselves behind the planet below.”

Tangar dipped his head. “Good as done.” The Kazid limped towards the dusty orange-brown globe below. “Computer, how long to make repairs?”

[Seventeen days minimum.]

“Too long to help the Bekel,” Tangar murmured.

“Yes. Message Rilla,” he told Jarane Hebor. “Tell them we’re hit and have lost power generation. We can’t help further.”

Jarane did so. “And a third ship took the place of the second.”

“We understand,” Rilla said. “Jarane, your information was useful, and we’re glad the crawlers don’t have a hyperdrive. We’ll pass a message to the other clanships about your repairs.”

Jarane acknowledged and closed the message.

Omol saw the Bekel’s tell-tale approached the edge of the system. At least we did some good. “Put us into orbit around that planet, Tangar, Bebb.” Omol saw that the last crawler had followed them. Apprehension shivered through his body, and he shook himself to release tension. “I suppose our luck couldn’t hold forever.”

The simtank image changed to a view of the Control Room of the Voth ship. The image had no depth; it flickered and deformed. Flashes of colour alternated with static bands.

“They’re hailing us, Omol,” Jarane murmured, “though there isn’t exactly a seamless technological interface.”

“No surprise there,” Omol said. “Looks like they’ve not just stolen the Kiai fleet, but have also adapted bits and pieces from various incompatible technologies.”

A Voth filled the screen; in the background several more stood on pseudopods before panels of instruments. Omol swallowed hard to clear the familiar twist of nausea, but the revulsion persisted. The Voth’s armour-plates displaced to allow the extrusion of a gelatinous pseudopod. It hardened into a rod and extended towards the viewer controls.

In Omol’s simtank view it reached for him; he ducked instinctively. There was a pause. He glanced at the others and saw disgust and fear on each face. None of us have forgotten what we saw on Kiai.

“Zarduthi warcraft!” a metallic voice grated. “You have destroyed five Voth craft but now you are damaged. Surrender, or Voth will fire.”

Omol checked his throat translator was on and stepped forward. “I am the commander of this ship. We travel to a rendezvous. Let us pass and we’ll do you no harm.”

“Zarduthi is in no position to bargain. Surrender the ship or Voth fires!”

*

Ten thousandths later.

It’s bluffing! Now Omol was sure it wanted the hyperdrive. No! This is our home, as well as transport from one war zone to another. He inhaled, breathed out, and said, “Then, Commander, you must give me time to consider –”

“Zarduthi has until the continent on the planet nearby disappears from view.” The image in the simtank faded, replaced by one of the Kazid, paced by the crawler.

Omol strode to one sightport and stared out of it. He couldn’t see the crawler, just the curve of the planet below. Its star hid behind the planet, and only a glow registered daybreak on the raised platform of the continent.

“Would they fire if they want the ship in one piece?” Bebb retorted.

“We can’t take the risk – but they may only want the drive itself, not the ship.”

“That’d make sense,” Bebb acknowledged. “What will you do?”

Omol turned. “I haven’t decided yet,” he admitted, “but I don’t want those bloodsuckers on our ship.” He swung round. “Computer: how long before the continent on the planet below revolves completely out of view?” The edge of the continent had disappeared round the limb of the planet. Soon the rest would follow.

[Eight hundredths.]

“Not long then.” Omol paced for a few thousandths as he considered the options. They could fight, but stood little chance of a win with a damaged power generation system. The clanship was both his pride and his responsibility. And we need more time for repairs than we have. But I won’t surrender the hyperdrive and let them devastate this sector of the galaxy! I don’t believe they wouldn’t harm us. They’ll either enslave or kill us, as on Kiai. He wouldn’t allow the Voth to do either. But there’s one thing they may not expect. He pressed his jaws together and felt muscles around his mouth bunch. “Determine presence of breathable atmosphere and temperature range on-planet.”

[A breathable atmosphere is present, including oxygen and other gases. Most metals are in the core. The planet-wide magnetic field repels the solar wind and the interaction produces spectacular aurorae. High-velocity windstorms are common, with lightning discharges. Temperatures on-planet are generally below Zarduthi body temperature, especially at night. Low water availability and the rarity of surface metallic elements confirm the mass of the planet to be lower than expected for its size. Surface gravity is therefore also lower. However, polarimetry results suggest the biosignatures of limited plant life on-planet.]

That doesn’t sound optimal, but it’s better than nothing. Omol crossed to the intercom. “Abandon ship, clan-kin! To the shuttles, and bring whatever possessions you can carry with you!” His voice was rough with emotion. “Pilots will be myself, Ghaneem Takaren, Renn Khardar, Bebb Jerda, and Faril Prazg.” He’d named the best pilots in the clan, a concession to his sense of failure and impotence. So much for helping the Bekel, he thought. “Report to me in the shuttle bay. We have strategy to discuss.” His hands flew over his control column and locked in his orders. He cast a final glance around the Control Room of the only permanent home he’d ever known, then strode into the corridor to collect his few possessions from his quarters.

Forms as tall and slim as his slipped past him. He scanned the crowd of clanfolk for Ghaneem; she wasn’t in sight. In their quarters, her most prized possessions were gone.

She’s ahead of me. He hurried forwards between men, women and children, intent on reaching the shuttles. The clanfolk stood aside to let him pass since he’d named himself as a pilot. It was only when he looked back to see the ranks close behind him that he caught a glimpse of Ghaneem’s face. Her hand lifted to him. Relief surged through him. He returned the palmraise and forged on.

The shuttle bay doors slid open ahead. A burst of energy carried him into the launch area. He headed for the first of five shuttles crouched flank to flank on their turnpads, halted before it and beckoned to his pilots. They clustered around him as he explained his plan. Behind them the clanfolk followed the permanent evacuation plans.

When he’d finished, he stepped towards the shuttle. The airlock door opened at his approach. He leapt up the steps, beckoned to the clanfolk, and slammed into the pilot’s seat. It adjusted around him as his headset lowered into place. To his right he glimpsed heat traces through the tinted headset, as the clanfolk scrambled into their seats. His crew from the Control Room entered the shuttle’s cockpit.

“Take-off imminent!” Omol snapped. His awareness of his passengers faded at the flash of a blue panel. The headset told him the airlock was secured. Other information flowed in: [Cabin air pressure: normal; air supplies: maximum; victualling: maximum; fuel supplies: maximum; engine condition sensors: functional; engine: fully operational; launch position: assumed.]

“What about the last crawler?” Tangar asked from the nav/com beside him.

Omol hadn’t seen his navigator slide into the seat beside him. “Part of the plan. Plot us a course which will take us close above it. When we get within range, lock onto it and give it everything we’ve got. We should have enough speed to get away.” Omol turned his attention back to his instruments, and adjusted the image mix of the simtank controls. “And I have something to do before we leave, so wait until I give the signal – I’ll power up the shuttle.” He flicked the switch on his translator back on. “Jarane, get me the Voth ship.”

A Voth appeared in the simtank. Omol couldn’t tell whether it was the same one as before.

“Well?” the creature’s voice simulator barked. “Zarduthi is early. Decision?”

“As you said. We won’t offer resistance if you come aboard.” Omol had used a virtual background of the Kazid’s Control Room, and hoped the image mix wouldn’t arouse the Voth’s suspicions. How well they can see? Can they can see at all? He hoped it would think they were still in the Control Room. The cobbled-together Voth comms system might help there.

“Boarding party despatched,” the Voth grated. The image in the simtank dissolved and was replaced with a view of a bubblecraft sealed to the side of the Kazid.

“What are they up to?” Tangar whispered.

A handspread indicated Omol’s puzzlement. “I suppose they’ll eat their way in – the Voth exist to consume the universe! Anyway, the first compartment they come to will seal itself off. They’ll be trapped till they can get through the door.” He checked the time on his instruments, then powered up the shuttle. “It should give us time to get away.”

There was a thousandth’s hiatus as personnel sensors checked the launch bay was empty. Then the air pumped out. Omol waited, muscles tensed, for the launch bay hatch to open. “Course laid in?”

“Everything’s ready,” Tangar confirmed.

“Faril?”

“Disruptor powered up, missiles readied,” Faril said.

The launch bay opened. Omol set the controls to flight and watched the ports. The shuttle lifted. Metal walls slid past as they thrust out through the gape of the hatch. Below lay the Voth crawler.

“Weapons locked,” Faril said. “We’re in range.”

“Let ’em have it.”

They swooped towards the crawler. Faril fired the disruptors. Missiles sped to their targets. The crawler exploded in a sheet of flame. Parts somersaulted towards the planet below.

The shuttle plunged after it. The other shuttles followed in formation.

“What about the ship, Omol?” Bebb asked.

“Set to self-destruct in fifteen thousandths. The Voth won’t get hold of her.” Though it’ll mean the end of the clan as such – if we’re ever rescued. He checked his control panel. “We’ll make for that continent.” He jabbed a finger at the simtank image. “This planet’s habitable for a while. From there we’ll launch a satellite and broadcast a distress call.” Omol locked on the simtank view of the ship from the underside; the transparent dome of the bubblecraft clung to the side of the hull. He opened up the hyperspace commgrid to talk to all the shuttles at once, glad to see Ghaneem’s face. “Let’s get out of here. Top speed, keep formation.”

“Yes, sir!”

Omol felt a flash of pride; Ghaneem was, above, all else, a good soldier. He checked the time. The Kazid completed its self-destruct sequence, as the shuttles streamed planetwards.

Omol dared look in the simtank. Behind them, the Kazid coughed debris and precious vapours into the universe.

---

CHAPTER 2: The Dark Planet

The Bekel, a few thousandths later.

“THE KAZID IS OFF THE COMMGRID,” Nam announced.

A pang went through Rilla. “Are you sure?”

Nam pointed at the simtank. “Look – no marker! They’ve either been destroyed or gone out of range – either way, they can’t help us now. Damn these khranen!”

 “We’re on our own, then,” Kaylar said. “Did you notice? The Voth boarding party haven’t tried to contact us at all. Not even to intimidate us.”

“Don’t expect a Voth to waste words!” Rilla murmured. She scanned her control console for inspiration. “They must expect victory.”

“D’you think they know we destroyed their ship?” Kaylar asked.

“Must do.” Rilla paced the control room. “The odd way they talk – like there’s only one of them. Could they be telepathic? Or some kind of hive mind?”

“I wondered about that, too,” Nam said.

“And we know projectile weapons don’t work on them, from the encounter on Kiai.” Rilla sighed and pushed the memory away. “I’ll pull up a close-up from inside the ship in the simtank. It might give us some ideas.”

At her voice command the simtank view changed to a view from inside the airlock. The feeder had enlarged the breach in the innermost skin of the inner door, and would soon enter the ship. Beyond the dribbles of sticky brown gel, the small Voth vessel ballooned around the wound in the hull, reminiscent of the protective translucent sac that enclosed every Zarduthi newborn.

Rilla’s hand pressed against her abdomen. Although she’d seen Voth close up before, the impact had never lessened, and was intense now she was pregnant. Disgust, nausea and fear wriggled through her, but she couldn’t look away.

The bubble held several Voth on a metal ramp, none suited against air or pressure loss. Don’t they need suits? Or can’t they function with them? There might be an advantage there…

“Suit up, everyone!” Rilla said. The other pregnant women obeyed. Rilla was last. She divided her attention between the main simtank and her control console. She devised and discarded plan after plan as she watched them come and go.

“Rilla? I’ll do up your seals.”

She looked up at Tambur. Under normal conditions the suits were easy for each crew member to manage, but pregnancy brought challenges. Supplies of the expanding pregnancy spacesuits onboard were limited; only twenty percent of a clanship’s occupants could be under-fifteens at any one time. But pregnant women had a vital role during deployments, and buddying up to fasten each other’s suit seals was an important safety routine.

“Thanks.” She climbed out of her chair. A glance at the simtank showed her that even the large Voth had entered the corridor. She remembered their clumsy gait from Kiai; the memory convulsed her in a shudder.

“They’re looking for us,” Nam said. “They want the Control Room.”

“D’you think they know about the children?” Vinta was focused on her assigned function.

“Would they care about them? Would they even understand?” Kaylar countered. “We could try to lure them into a trap –”

“I thought we might use the ship’s defences, too.” Rilla felt the pressure lift off her. “If we opened corridors to let them approach the centre of the ship, we could lead them to where we can deal with them. We shouldn’t even have to leave the Control Room.” She turned to the simtank. “We’d better keep watch on them, but I’ll bring up a maximum-scale schematic,” she said. The tank view split to display it.

Vinta jabbed a finger at three intersecting corridors. “These would lead them to the ship’s defences. Let’s open them before they get there so they don’t realise it’s a trap.”

“Let’s do it.” Rilla gave the instructions and the doors slid open on the schematic. “Kaylar, check those defences are armed… I hope they’re too stupid to smell a trap!”

In the simtank, the feeder passed into the next corridor, enlarged beyond the usual size of a mature Voth. Fluid oozed from between its plates, the usual coarse grey hairlike protrusions completely reabsorbed. The other Voth followed it on stumpy pseudolimbs, unaware of anything except their task.

Behind them a door slid open. Their whiskery protrusions twitched, then rippled.

“Perhaps that’s how they communicate amongst themselves,” Tambur suggested.

Two Voth stomped back along the corridor.

“Maybe.” Rilla watched as, for a few thousandths, the Voth leaned towards the open doorway as if they peered into it. Their whiskers twitched, though no emotion was visible. But the rest of the Voth, except the largest, left the door they’d attached themselves to, and clustered beside the opened one. Blood thundered in Rilla’s ears. They’ve taken the bait.

The lead Voth stomped through. The others followed, clumsy on jointless pseudolegs.

“Now what?” Kaylar asked. “Do we immediately shut the doors behind them, or wait till they turn the corridor?”

“We wait,” Rilla said. “Keep them together.” She swivelled in her seat to point to the feeder in the corridor. “Machari! Look at that thing.”

The feeder’s side was enormous – and it still fed. As the hole in the next door grew, so did the feeder. Rilla checked the schematic of the ship. “The next section of corridor’s sealed off,” she said, “but I want this thing out of there, or it’ll be in here with us before we know it!” The feeder devoured the door in a rough grid pattern.

“Look at its feed pattern!” Vinta said. “It’s gobbling up as much of the door as it can.”

“We must dislodge them before we enter hyperdrive,” her high voice continued. “We don’t know what will happen to it when we enter hyperspace – atmospheric decompression, most likely…” She hesitated. “And if they can dissolve a triple-skinned hull in thousandths there’s no telling what else they might be able to do.”

“Vinta’s right,” Rilla said. “Unless we can dispose of the bubblecraft – and them – before we enter hyperdrive we’re no better off. And I don’t fancy our chances with decompression in hyperspace –”

“And we’d just be taking the Voth with us to the yellow-star system.” Kaylar said. “They’re unlikely to help if we give a threat a ride straight there!”

Rilla acknowledged that and looked at each of them in turn. “Ideas?”

“If we could dislodge that bubble, the feeder would be sucked out by the vacuum as that sector depressurised.”

“Good idea, Vinta,” Rilla said, “but how do we dispose of the bubble?”

“Do we know what that craft is made of?” Tambur asked. “It might pierce with a projectile weapon. One of us could go down there –”

“And be sucked out with them?” Rilla raised both palms. “Too risky! I don’t want to lose any of my crew.”

“You may lose all of us – and the children – if somebody doesn’t go.” Vinta touched her suit. “I’ve got at least some protection, I can hang on to something in the corridor, and I’ll have a line –”

“It might just work, you know,” Kaylar said, “but it should be one of us who isn’t too pregnant and can move quickly.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“If you wish.”

“All right. Computer, run a sensor sweep and find out what the bubble’s made of.” [Metalloplastoid mesh on flexible plastic. The floor is metal.]

“It might just work,” Rilla said. “But we can’t enter hyperspace yet. All we can do is put up the best fight we can.”

“And hope Eren and the others are as well,” added Nam. “It might be a while till we can come back for them.”

“Got everything you need?” Rilla asked.

Kaylar patted her projectile pistol and the safety line anchored around her waist.

“Take the quickshift round to the other side of the ship,” Rilla suggested. “It’ll take you where you want to be and avoid the feeder-Voth.” She transferred control of the weapons console to her column.

Kaylar raised a hand, then operated the switch that brought the leaves of her helmet together. Two flicks of her gloved fingers snapped the seals shut. She raised her hand again, then walked to the doorway. The two halves slid back into the bulkhead. She stepped through and was gone.

She arrived safely in the quickshift.

She might do it, Rilla thought, as she watched in the simtank. Now – where are the Voth?

They’d passed through the next open doorway. Rilla sealed the door into the outer corridor; necessary to prevent the rest of the ship from depressurisation when Kaylar fired. The Voth feeder concentrated on its task. Can they even pick up sounds? Yet they communicate with us.

In the outer corridor, all that remained of the door was a triple-skinned strip at the top that the Voth couldn’t reach, despite its height increase. The feeder was enormous now. Its side bulged. The plates had parted and occasional ropes of gel protruded, and were reabsorbed.

Of a sudden, the thing dropped to the floor, writhed, and pulled in its walking pseudopods. For a thousandth Rilla thought it was having a seizure. Then the plates on its side peeled back.

Rilla laid a trembling hand on her abdomen. She felt the movement as her baby turned and kicked in the nutrient-rich fluids of her womb. I know why it fed like that, she thought. It’s giving birth. But it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Nausea choked her but she daren’t look away.

The gel pseudopods snaked out with increased frequency, no longer reabsorbed. Soon there were four or five rope-like extensions from the creature. It made no sound, but continued to writhe. Its hunched shape made it appear to hug itself as the protrusions pooled at its side. Remembering her own birth pains, Rilla couldn’t help a twinge of sympathy in spite of her revulsion. When the extensions separated from the creature’s side, still attached to each other at one point it shocked her. She stared, fascinated and horrified, as tiny plates formed over its surface. When plates covered the form the five extensions separated from each other.

Five more Voth were now aboard the Bekel. Rilla watched as the immature feeders not only attached themselves to the door but also grew visibly in a few thousandths. Fear squeezed her lungs. She took a sharp indrawn breath.

The “parent” clambered upright as fast as it had fallen, its size reduced by half. Plates slid back into place over its breached side. It marched through the ruined doorway and followed the curve of the corridor to its fellows at the next door.

At least there’s more than one compartment between us and that thing now, Rilla thought. Although the “babies” are next door. I hope Kaylar can get the bubble off the side of the ship. She split the tank view. Kaylar was almost in position. The rest of the Voth were near the centre of the ship.

“They shift, for sure!” Nam murmured.

“Yes.” But Rilla had few fears for the slumbering children; surely, even a Voth’s prodigious appetite couldn’t take it past the line of nozzles that protected the sleep-room? A chill touched her spine. Without further comment she checked that the ship’s log still recorded and fed signals through the simtank. She clamped her lips together in satisfaction and settled back in her seat, as she tried to relax and watch Kaylar’s progress.

*

Kazid Shuttle 4, en route for unnamed planet, ten thousandths later.

“Omol.” Berin Dateen’s tone was urgent.

“What?”

“The planet below us looks dark.”

“What do you mean, dark?”

“It looks like twilight, even on the side that faces its star – and I haven’t yet spotted that.”

Omol checked the simtank. “You’re right – that’s odd! I’ll check on the starmaps.” He gave a voice command, and the starmaps popped up. He was about to look at them, when Tangar spoke.

“What’s that?” Tangar gestured towards a haze of subtle colours on the simtank image. It lay in a gap between two dark mountain ranges – or perhaps one was a continuation of the other.

“What d’you think it is?”

“A settlement, perhaps. Should I despatch an exploratory team?”

“No – scan for the usual things, especially water and minerals. We may be here some time, so we can explore it later.” Omol turned back to his instruments and hailed the other pilots. “Status reports?”

Ghaneem was the only one to report any damage. “Just slight debris impact, nothing serious.”

“You be careful, then,” Omol said, watching her dear face.

“I will,” she said.

“Tangar and I are looking for a suitable landing site. I’ll speak to all of you again as soon as we have co-ordinates.”

Ghaneem acknowledged that with a palmraise and her image flipped out of the simtank.

“Omol, what about Eren Gharm’s ship?” Tangar asked. “I have kin on the Bekel. So does Bebb.”

“Sorry, I can’t pick them up anywhere. They must be out of commgrid range.” Omol concentrated on the dataflows that streamed through his headset. “Planetary ETA five tenths,” he murmured.

Dusty ochre punctuated this world’s stretches of dark blue ocean, and grey clouds swirled above it. Polar ice caps topped and tailed it. Clouds and a desert belt, he surmised. Oceans. What else? “Zoom in forty percent.”

The outlines of two continents, one above the equator and further round the limb of the planet, another below it, kept company with trails of islands. Perhaps volcanic seamounts, he thought. Occasional lightning flashes stabbed the planet’s surface.

The world stretched and grew in the eye of the simtank. There was little to do but scan for further enemy activity in the region. There was none, yet Omol couldn’t relax.

As they rounded the end of the continent Berin Dateen finished her scans. “There are signs of trees at waterholes, and both lizard-like and insect-like life on this continent, fish and a slew of plant and animal aquatic life in the oceans.”

“And the other continent?”

Berin studied her instruments for a thousandth. “Savannah. Life scans are negative at this distance. And at the tips of the continents, where there should have been temperate regions, the sea level has risen and drowned the land.”

“Hmm. It’s a weird world.”

“Not as weird as its star.”

That reminded Omol to check the star in the simtank. As he glanced into it, he saw a strange sight. The star was small and dim, with alternate bands of purplish-red and orange that gave it a lurid beauty. He zoomed in further. The star resolved into a dim magenta disk with bands of orange clouds. A dull glow escaped from beneath and between the bands. At the poles, blue, green and red aurorae danced like a troupe of Saytorian balleteers, in time with pulses of radio emissions.

Omol peered closer. “It’s a brown dwarf. That’s not good news.”

“No. Most of its light emissions are in the infra-red range, though there are low levels of visible light – and very little heat. It fuses deuterium and hydrogen.” Berin hesitated, then added, “And on the planet the water in the oceans is undrinkable – even for us.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve run the check three times – the stuff’s too full of chemicals even to distil water from it. We might be luckier inland – there must be access to fresh water somewhere. I’m scanning now. I haven’t found any rivers, but there are rock formations that could form natural aquifers.”

“Then we’ll head for them,” Omol said. “We don’t have enough fuel to reach anywhere else.” He hailed the other shuttles and fed in landing co-ordinates. As they sped over the landscape, the crescent shapes that marked a dunefield appeared on the plains below. This is a dry, windy planet. Lightning stabbed the dune-crests at irregular intervals.

Soon the desert rushed to meet them in the shuttle’s simtank view.

Omol jabbed at a panel on the instrument array before him to activate the reverse thrusters. He felt the downwards motion slow as the shuttle hovered. A spray of sand spurted up from the desert floor; jets repelled it from sensitive areas. The shuttle sank down, and nearby, three others came to rest. They’d landed in the lee of the dunefield.

Omol’s stomach curdled with shock. He turned to face Tangar. “Where’s – Ghaneem’s shuttle?”

“They’re all down –”

The brow of a dune on the horizon exploded.

Ghaneem! Omol’s mind reeled. He flicked simcube switches into life to hail the other shuttles. The simtank split to accommodate the images. Although the continent was on the day side, daylight on this planet was more like perpetual twilight.

There were only three shuttles.

Renn reported a safe landing. Then Bebb. Then Faril.

Still no image of Ghaneem.

Omol swallowed hard. His fists balled and the talons sliced into the softer skin on his palms. “I’ll get search parties together,” he said. His voice shook. With an effort he unclenched his fists. It’s just that Ghaneem’s commgrid’s out of action. “Tangar, co-ordinates for Ghaneem’s shuttle?”

“Just getting them.” The nav headset still encased Tangar’s face.

At the touch of a button Omol’s pilot headset swung up to its storage pod, and the pilot’s seat loosened its caress. He got to his feet, full of dread, and walked from the control area into the cabin.

Fifty faces looked to him for support. They trust my leadership and judgement. It was the children’s expressions that tore at him most.

The food and water situation’s very serious. A Zarduthi could adapt to most food sources in the field. The food stock onboard was of two types: pre-pack food they’d negotiated for and frozen, which could be used in its present form, and biomass, which would act as feedstuff for the synth machines. It could be made into whatever they needed, but started off as material even their zosas couldn’t process. In feedstuff form it wouldn’t be wasted and would last indefinitely. But neither would feed the clan forever without replenishment.

“Gerrad, one of the shuttles crashed and is out of contact. I want your unit to run a search – I’ll come with you.” He swung to face another of his lieutenants. “Davor, your unit will search for fresh water. Tangar will give you co-ordinates. We’re near the edge of the desert but he thinks there are aquifers nearby, so you may find some by nightfall.

“Chutt, we can use onboard supplies for now, but I need you to organise two food search parties, and send them out in different directions. Check whether whatever you find is safe to eat in its present form, or whether we’ll need to modify it to use as feedstuff.” Though preferable to poisoning, that would use power they could ill afford. In this constant twilight the shuttle’s solar panels must be switched to infra-red mode or they’d be useless.

How long will our power last? And how long must we survive here? He strode back to Tangar’s seat and perched on the edge of the pilot’s chair so it wouldn’t mould around him. “Anything?”

“Still nothing from Ghaneem’s shuttle. Sorry, Omol – she’s off the commgrid. The damage must be bad. But I have co-ordinates for her shuttle.”

Omol couldn’t see his expression, but the compassion in the inflections and susurrations of the soft language were unmistakable. He acknowledged Tangar’s sensitivity with a gesture. “Only to be expected from time to time, in our line of business,” he said, voice steady now – which amazed him. “Co-ordinates for fresh water?” he asked Berin Dateen.

“I’ll get on it. And I’ll keep trying for mineral resources.”

Her promise soothed Omol. “We’ll need to locate the distress satellite to get a call for help out.” Omol pushed himself upright and forced himself to walk back into the cabin, where Gerrad and his vudaki awaited him.

“Come, clan-kin,” he said. “We’ll take the shuttle when everyone’s outside.”

Disembarkation was soon completed. Omol saw that the work parties were already organised, and turned back to the controls.

Gerrad slipped into Tangar’s place beside him. “Do you want someone else to pilot the shuttle?” he asked. “You’ve been in that seat ever since we left the Kazid.”

“Pag, I’m fine.” Omol needed something to occupy his mind. He still reeled from the loss of his ship, though he couldn’t have made any other choice. I can’t lose Ghaneem as well, he thought. We’ve been together for exactly twenty-six days.

The shuttle lifted. Omol watched the horizon. It took only thousandths to reach the wreckage. Small parts scattered a couple of nearby dunes. The main body of the shuttle perched on top of one of them. There could have been no survivors.

Omol rested his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes. “The nearest habitable planet just had to be one with nothing of any use at all!” He opened his eyes again. “But at least the drive won’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“Not ours, no,” Gerrad murmured. “But – what happened to the Bekel?”

In the distance, lightning spiked again.

*

Kaylar had anchored her safety line to one of the metal loops that protruded at intervals from the Bekel’s bulkheads, for use by repair crews. Its whiteness made it disappear against the bulkhead. She crept towards the breach in the hull. The bubble was now empty; she had no fear of discovery by the Voth. She clipped her line to the loop, grabbed it as well, took the projectile pistol from the holster slung at her hip, and fired.

The recoil sucked Kaylar out through the breach as the corridor decompressed, and freed a length of her safety line. The bubble split, then peeled away from the side of the Bekel and disappeared into the void in the ship’s wake.

Five immature Voth forms followed a thousandth later. They soon disappeared into the void behind her. Kaylar’s safety line twanged tight against the bulkhead hook.

“Kaylar!” Rilla yelled. Her voice sounded distant. “What happened?”

“She can’t hear you,” Vinta’s voice was even fainter.

“I can – just. I’m fine.” Kaylar grinned at them. They’ll be able to see me in the simtank. “I did it! The bubblecraft’s gone, and so are the ‘babies’.”

“We saw – now we just need you back onboard in one piece,” Rilla growled. “Can you make it back inside?”

“Of course.” Kaylar made to haul herself inside the ship. “I’m coming back to kill the khranen –” She reached for an external loop, but the usual pair either side of an airlock weren’t there. The Voth must have dissolved them along with the airlock hatch.

Then she noticed that the line had lodged against some of the digestive gel. If a metal door couldn’t stand up to it, Kaylar thought, a lifeline, even metal-reinforced, won’t be up to much. “Rilla!” she called, and told her what she’d seen.

“Stay there – keep as still as possible. Tambur and Vinta will come and get you.”

In the background, Kaylar heard Rilla give them instructions.

“Keep calm, Kaylar. The slightest movement against that line could –”

“I know!” Kaylar hadn’t realised that the spin of the Bekel would force the line against the gel. How long can it last?

Chung! Strands split apart. The shock reverberated up and down the line.

“Rilla!”

“I know. Keep still.”

Where are the others? Kaylar took another deep breath, prepared for a gradual release. She forced herself to concentrate on the faint smell of the air from the tanks.

Chung!

Another breath. She began to count. One, two, three… Kaylar dared not even speak aloud lest the line rupture.

Chung!

Kaylar could see more strand-ends…Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…

“Just keep calm and still.”

Chung! More metal strand-ends showed grey against the white hull.

Where are they? Kaylar took a deep breath to release slowly.

Chung! The last few strands snapped.

Even using the ion drive, the ship became smaller and smaller within thousandths – a much shorter time than she’d expected.

Kaylar panicked when she realised she was utterly alone in the void. “Rilla!” she screamed. “My baby!”

*

Rilla heard Kaylar’s anguished scream just before the commgrid went silent. She’s out of range –

Her fingers punched the simtank controls to magnify the view. A voice command can’t convey urgency to the computer. It only works at one speed.

There was no trace of Kaylar.

She sat forward on her seat, hand against her abdomen. “I should have known this would happen,” she whispered. “I should never have let her go.”

“It’s not your fault, Rilla!” Nam said, from her console. “We had to lose the Voth bubblecraft, and she succeeded with that and the “baby” Voth.”

Rilla felt guilt like a physical pain. I have to recall Tambur and Vinta. I can’t lose them as well. She spoke with urgency into the intercom, restricting it to the nearest compartment.

There was no reply. Rilla became agitated as she tried again. Still, nothing happened. Where are they? She flipped along the compartments with the simtank to try to locate them, then tried the quickshift.

They were there. “What’s happened, Rilla?” Tambur called.

“Come back,” she sobbed. “It’s too late – we’ve lost Kaylar!”

*

Fifty dead, Omol thought, and Ghaneem one of them. I won’t be the only clan member to lie sleepless and grieving that night. He landed the shuttle near the wreckage. “We’ll bring – the bodies – out for vaporisation,” he said, the tremor back in his voice.

Close up, the wreckage held an even more final story. Nothing moved, except for the airlock door. It hung off its runners and creaked at every gust of wind. Gerrad pulled it off for safe entry and laid it on the sand. “Wait here, Omol,” he said, and entered the shuttle.

Omol stood in the deeper shade of the wreckage, paralysed by dread and shock. The low light level triggered his infrared vision. A blur moved in the wind and caught his attention. Was that part of a plant that just whistled by? The breeze moved light objects with ease in the lighter gravity of this world.

Thousandths passed before Gerrad re-emerged. They felt like a lifetime. Gerrad walked round the back of the shuttle, disappeared from sight, and came back into view at the front. “It’s easy to see the cause of the crash,” he said as he walked back over to Omol. “The rear stabilizers are badly damaged.”

“She said some debris hit the shuttle,” Omol murmured. That must have happened when the ship exploded. It’s my fault. Guilt assaulted his traumatised emotions.

Another plant fragment whizzed past as the breeze strengthened.

They entered in silence. Possessions, bodies and blood spilled everywhere. Faces were unrecognisable. A void opened up inside Omol.

Ghaneem lay in the cockpit. The pilot’s chair still embraced her, and her beauty was untouched by the chaos of the main cabin. Her head was tilted as if to listen…but Omol knew she would never hear again. “Take her out first,” he whispered. He wouldn’t allow himself to touch her.

The shuttle had no power, so Gerrad and his men had to unbolt her chair to remove her. But the lighter gravity aided this operation, and with careful reverence they carried the chair out into the dim day and laid it against the swell of a dune.

Omol stared at her body and tried to impress every detail of Ghaneem onto his memory forever. His thermal vision showed she’d barely cooled down. She might still have been alive… But he knew that was just a daydream.

“She is yours to take,” Gerrad whispered in the soft language.

Omol raised his disruptor, aimed it, shut his eyes, and fired. When he opened them again Ghaneem’s body had disappeared. A slight depression in the dune glowed white in thermal vision mode, and faded to yellow as he watched. It marked her presence – for mere thousandths – on this world. Numbness cloaked the void inside him.

“We’ll bring out the others to give their closest kin the honour of vaporising them,” Gerrad said. “He hesitated, then added, “Omol – you did the only thing you could. You couldn’t let the Voth take the drive. We’re all behind you.” He still used the soft language.

“Thank you, Gerrad,” Omol said. “I appreciate your kinship.”

---

CHAPTER 3: The Ship In The Void

Kazid clan settlement, unnamed planet. Zarduthi ship-time: 405.385.2.43.046 AD.

“HAVE YOU SEEN THE SHOOTS?”

Omol turned to face Tangar. “What shoots?”

“Beside the spring. I noticed them yesterday. It must be a positive sign if plants colonise the area.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed. “Show me.” He followed Tangar across the dunefield. The chill of day was barely warmer than the nights, which matched the frozen wound that had replaced his heart. Omol pulled the collar of his fur jacket up around his neck.

“Good job it’s not far,” Tangar said, as he did the same.

A large chunk of windweed flew by and almost hit Omol in the face. He caught it. It looked to be a type of moss.

“Have you seen this stuff before?” he asked Tangar.

“A few times, yes. Wind dispersal could be how this plant spreads.”

Omol nodded. “That’s what I thought, too.” He dropped the plant and the wind blew it away. They walked on. Wind raised dust eddies up to their knees as they crossed the sand. Omol fell behind as he watched them. The air never rested, and although the planet was larger than some he’d visited, the gravity was lower than he was used to. Omol glanced at the distant column structures, where lightning danced at times, then quickened his pace and caught up with Tangar near the spring. Tangar had his forefinger extended to point.

Omol hunkered down for a closer view. “You’re right, Tangar.” There were shoots beside the spring. Even in the dim light they looked green and contrasted against the murky buff, lilac, ochre and red shades of the sand and rocks. “I suppose they might offer fruits, or something we can eat,” Omol said.

“Anything to liven up our diet,” Tangar replied.

*

Galatea Space Station, Earth orbit, 27th November, 2093.

Vimal Ashraf waited for Malek Sindram to rise.

“Anything?” he asked.

“The usual views from the main telescope,” Malek said, “but you remember the dip in Titan’s reflected light that Kepler III found yesterday?”

“Yes?”

“It disappeared about an hour after we picked it up, but came back overnight. This morning there’s a distinct shadow on Titan’s cloud tops. Whatever it is must have passed behind Titan as the moon passed behind Saturn. I fed all our data into the computer and ran an analysis. There could be something in orbit around Titan.”

Vimal stared at her. “What sort of something?”

“Well…it appeared suddenly…perhaps a transiently captured moonlet or a spacecraft…”

Vimal didn’t want to jump to conclusions. He waited for her reply.

“I was thinking,” Malek added, “there’s a mining survey vessel in that area. Could it take a closer look?”

“May I see your analysis first?”

“Of course.” Malek turned to the computer.

“By the way, how did you and your husband get on with that specialist the other day?”

Malek regarded him with eyes that had become moist and shiny. “Jitindra’s infertile.”

“But you can have treatment. What about artificial insemination?”

Malek shook her head. “Jitindra’s sperm wouldn’t work, and the Neoluddites forbid the use of sperm from another man. I wish Jitindra hadn’t got involved with them.” She sighed. “No, I must resign myself to the fact that I will never have a child. Our only hope is adoption, but surplus babies are rare. The authorities can pick and choose who they go to.” She put up a hand to wipe her eyes. “They don’t usually choose Neoluddite families.”

“I’m so sorry,” Vimal said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know.” Malek attempted a smile. It didn’t quite work. “I’m glad you asked. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t, and it’s probably better that you know.” She indicated the screen. “Here’s the analysis.”

Vimal leaned closer and rested his hands on the back of her chair as he scanned the data. He called up video footage of the object, and was shocked to see it appear at the edge of the Solar System as if out of nowhere. It drifted into its present position. After a few moments he said, “You’re right, Malek. That’s causing a small but definite dip in reflected light, and it appeared too suddenly to be a natural phenomenon.” He stood up and paced about the room. “I think you’re right.” He looked across at Malek. “Your idea about the mining survey vessel’s a good one. I’ll mention it to Mission Control – well done!”

*

Kazid shuttle 4, unnamed planet, ship’s time/date: 405.015.6.79.732 AD.

“Tangar, is there a condensation-gathering film kit on this shuttle?”

In answer to Omol’s question, Tangar popped his head out of the airlock. “I think so, but I’m not sure where. We’ll look out for them.” His team had brought out everything they could use from Ghaneem’s derelict shuttle, prior to dismantlement, so that they could cannibalise useable sections of its outer hull for shelter.

 “Thanks. We could set them up near the shelter and collect the water from them each morning – to augment the stream supply.

Some thousandths later Tangar and Faril carried a slim tray over to him. Its length was at least the height of a Zarduthi adult. “Here. Where do you want it?”

Omol excused himself from his call and looked up from his personal communicator. “We’ll take them back to the shelter with the other stuff – we don’t want to have to walk too far for our water ration! The other teams will bring theirs back as well. If we deploy them all they’d provide us with some more drinking water, as it’s so cold at night.” The water would freeze, but the tray could be heated to melt the ice.

The contraption joined the pile of equipment and materials on the sand. Omol turned back to his conversation. “Yes, Tarvin, bring it back to the shelter with you. Out.” He switched the communicator off and turned back to Tangar. “I’ll need a few of your team to load the stuff into our shuttle. Make sure I can reach the controls!”

Just thousandths later, Faril stumbled out of Ghaneem’s shuttle under the weight of a familiar shape: the distress satellite. “This what you’re looking for, Omol?” he asked with a sly grin.

Omol felt a leap of hope inside him, and permitted himself a smile of pure relief. “That’s it! Can you look for the matter conversion unit as well?”

“Will do.”

The shuttle loaded, he sent his helpers back to Tangar, picked his way past the piles of food supplies, equipment and clothing, squeezed into the pilot’s seat, and played the controls. The shuttle lifted off the ground.

He returned to the shelter the home crew had constructed near the spring, opened the airlock and jumped down onto the sand. “Dolvan, Kandas, can you set up the condenser units in a group together, as the other kits arrive?” he asked the team that swarmed around the craft to unload it. “I’ll help you when I’ve got the next load back here.”

Dolvan and Kandas nodded and climbed into the craft, and soon reappeared with the condensation film kit. “Where d’you want them, Omol?”

Omol pointed. “We’ll keep the kits together, but spaced apart.” Omol watched as Dolvan and Kandas carried the kits to the place he’d pointed to. Kandas pressed a button on the side of the first tray and a frame unrolled itself. Another press of the button and a glistening film slid up from the tray to fill the frame. Thousandths later, condensation gleamed on the film. And just thousandths after that, with every buffet of the wind, droplets trickled down into the tray.

*

Joint Space Exploration Program Mining Survey vessel Athina, 7th December 2093.

“What the hell…?”

Lenny Cowan swivelled the outside cameras on their mounts, increased magnification, and leaned closer to the screen.

“You know what it is.” Phil Dalton turned away from the resource map his scanner had prepared, and both astronauts peered at the screen. The object drifted ahead of them. “More to the point, how did it get here?”

Lenny shrugged. “Well, it’s definitely not one of ours,” he grunted. “Never seen anything like it. I’ll get some shots.” He activated the cameras and concentrated on the derelict hulk again. It was so close that it dwarfed Titan. The ship resembled nothing so much as a nut or seed, plump in the middle and tapered towards either elongated end. The image modified as Lenny zoomed in further. The hull was mirror-silver against Titan’s hazy orange clouds.

Aliens? We’ve had space travel for over a hundred years now, with no evidence yet that aliens exist. But I hope they do.

Lenny was engrossed in his examination when the mission commander, Bill Linford, manoeuvred himself through the hatch, across the cockpit, and into the pilot’s seat beside him.

“I’ve told Mission Control we’ve started the camera run,” Bill said. “Any sign of life?”

“None. See for yourself – I’m feeding the images through to the main scanner.” Space stretched, bleak and unrelenting, on the screen. Against it Titan filled the sky like a gigantic apricot, the seed-like craft’s shadow superimposed on the moon’s cloud tops.

“I’ll take the module round the other side,” Bill murmured. “We’ll do a complete circuit of the ship, then pass longitudinally. Our fuel won’t allow more, but that should give them what they need to decide what to do about it.”

The module crept above the surface of the craft. It took fourteen minutes just to reach the opposite side. Now the module’s bulkhead concealed Titan. Its hazy orange clouds swirled on the reflective surface.

“Hey, Bill! Look at this!”

“What?”

Lenny pointed. “There’s a hole in the side of it.”

“Are you sure?”

For answer Lenny zoomed further in, and played the cameras over every inch of the craft. “There,” he said, and pointed.

A man-sized, jagged tear in the hull revealed a dark interior.

---

CHAPTER 4: The Secret Chamber

JSEP vessel Tsiolkovsky, 9th March, 2094.

ALEXEI PETRUSHENKO LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT and studied the onscreen images. When his latest assignment had come through, he’d been about to take his ship back on the regular Moon–Mars supply run. He’d never done salvage work before. The ship had required a refit.

He’d never been out this far before, either. World President Langrishe had authorised the salvage mission once it became apparent that the alien ship was probably empty. Where its operators were wasn’t Alexei’s concern. The salvage teams were all experienced; they’d assembled laser communications satellites in orbit around Mars and the Moon, and had helped build the most recent Moon settlements. Just as well, Alexei thought. Although salvage was new to some of them, the teams were used to working in weightless and microgravity conditions. At least I only had to pilot the ship.

The JSEP authorities had sent specialists to rendezvous with the Tsiolkovsky on Mars in short order, and the trip had been smooth. Simi Felton’s salvage team were about to return to the Tsiolkovsky. The left-hand screen split on Alexei’s scanner showed the mosaic of shots of the alien ship the Athina had returned to Mission Control. Alexei turned his attention from that to the larger real-time image beside it.

He was relieved to have delivered them safely here; now he just had to get them back to Earth. He had little to do; the Tsiolkovsky paced the alien vessel on autopilot. He’d watched the salvage crew weld rocket-shapes to its mirrored surface. It had taken all day, even with three welders on each retro-tug. The remote-controlled craft would guide the ship to Galatea Station.

“We’re back!” The videocom from the corridor to the living quarters showed Simi wipe the sweat from her face. “Any messages?”

Alexei shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve told them we’re ready to move.” He usually worked with just his co-pilot, Dmitri. Simi’s seat had been rigged in place between them. A third person in his cockpit to remote-control the retro-tugs was the worst part of the mission for him.

 “I’ll go clean up, then,” she said. The videocom flicked out.

 The message came through from Mission Control soon after Simi had rejoined Alexei in the cabin: “Activate retro-tugs.”

 Alexei saw Simi’s hand hover over the switch for an instant, as if she contemplated failure.

She threw the switch. Seconds later, the retro-tugs fired.

The alien ship left Titan’s orbit behind it.

*

Nameless planet, same day, (ship’s time/date: 406.51.7.79.564 AD).

The sky at dusk was a murky purple-blue that awaited streaks of magenta cloud. They brought night dews and strong winds that dried sweat on Omol’s face during physical activity.

The trees beside the spring stirred. Their branches wept over the spring, and their leaves drooped in tubular clusters to the water’s surface. Their growth was swift.

Omol shivered under the chill breeze as he turned towards the grove. I brought my people here, he acknowledged. I am the cause of this clan’s demise. When we are rescued we’ll all be taken into other clans, and may never see each other again. The only mercy is that juveniles will stay with their parents.

But – I couldn’t let the Voth get the drive.

The time he’d spent with Ghaneem was a distant memory he kept locked away in a corner of his mind. But the image of her face – the second before he’d fired the disruptor – often overlay his vision. Her serenity in death mocked the clan’s struggle for survival.

He ignored the flight of a clod of windweed past him and strode towards one bank of the spring. At the water’s edge, he squatted and reached a hand into the water. The sensation of cold travelled up his arm and terminated in a nerve in his armpit; shivers invaded his body. He had to lean forwards this time to check what he thought he’d noticed the day before.

Surely the water level’s gone down? This was the only stream in the area, though they now knew water existed in an aquifer below.

As light fled the sky, the shimmering reds, greens and blues of the aurorae skated across it. They marked the interaction of particles from the planet with the intense magnetic fields of the brown dwarf. Now Omol registered the trees’ heat traces. Some things in this vision mode were easier to see, some harder. Lightning sometimes struck the ground and knocked out his heat vision mode momentarily. But the level was down in the stream. He looked across at the trees. Strange. The clusters of leaf-tubes were still in contact with the water. He moved closer. The trees, now as tall as he was, stirred in the breeze. He caught a branch in one hand and lifted the leaf-tubes out of the water.

It was true. Yesterday that branch was shorter. More immature tubelets had formed on the branch’s end. He let it go, and it swished back into position, the leaves level with the stream. As he watched, the water level dipped.

“As if it were thirsty,” he said.

The branches reached deeper into the water in response.

Machari! These things will suck up all the water. We won’t even manage to send out a distress signal before we die of thirst! And to think we welcomed them!

Omol stood up and pulled out his disruptor. He fired at the nearest tree, the one he’d touched. It disappeared in a burst of vapour and dust. A ragged stump that glowed with the heat of the blast remained. The tinted sands around it had melted to form a glassy surface. He allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction, then fired again, and again, until all the trees were gone.

Then he turned and floundered across the tinted sand, back towards the shuttles the clan used for living quarters.

*

The Bekel, Galatea Station, low Earth orbit, 20th June 2094.

Chas Lawton surveyed with misgivings the hole that yawned at the end of the walkway. He peered closer. Brown gel had congealed – in the chill of space – on the jagged edges of what might once have been an airlock hatch. He wrinkled his nose. What could have left a trace like that? “We should avoid touching this stuff till we know what it is,” he said.The others nodded.

The craft had arrived at the space station for further investigation the previous week. But with no attempt by any occupants to make contact with them, Chas’ unit of JSEP marines were going in with an engineering team.

This is it! Chas realised. I will be one of the first humans to step aboard an alien spaceship. Tremors of apprehension rippled through his stomach and replaced the excitement of the choice of his unit for the contact team. Sweat wicked into the layers of his spacesuit. A pulse thudded in the heel of his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment to steel himself for whatever lay ahead.

“Move, Chas! I’ll cover you.”

Chas opened his eyes. Olga Varishkova, his unit leader. Never patient at the best of times, nor one to confide in, or get close to. His toes felt clammy inside boots that bore clip-on Magnetix sandals. He avoided the edge of the hole as he entered the airlock, glanced at each of his companions, then took a step forwards. Dials and gauges told him this had indeed once been an airlock; but a similar irregular hole marred the bulkhead opposite. So, whatever got in destroyed the airlock. “We should avoid touching this stuff till we know what it is,”he said. The others nodded.

The airlock was empty. Behind them, on the walkway from space station to alien ship, the engineering crew waited.

“…Triple metal skin, composition an iron-based alloy…” Eddie Harkness stood back from the airlock, recording verbal notes on his in-suit recorder.

The hole ahead led into a corridor with a silvery metal floor. Varishkova and the other four crowded up behind him at the airlock entrance. As promised, her stun gun was charged and raised.

Chas breathed a sigh of relief and moved to give them room to enter, using the bulkhead for cover. The bulkheads were a dull white, coated with enamel with a hammered texture.  He rubbed his fingers over the surface. His hand bounced over it, but he couldn’t feel anything through the rigid, jointed glove.

“Sensors?” Varishkova asked.

Luis Accaro lifted his handheld analyser. “I’ll tell you more inside the ship. It was repressurised when the walkway was attached, so the air in here’s pure Earthside.” He looked up and grinned. “Though at this stage I really wouldn’t recommend you open your helmet.”

“Not just yet,” Varishkova agreed, with no hint of a smile. “We don’t know what we’ll find.” She looked at each of her team in turn. “We stay together – understood?”

The unit chorused their affirmatives.

“Chas and I will cover each other as we advance. The rest of you – work in your usual pairs, and cover each other. If we make contact, keep your weapons handy, but don’t act with overt aggression. We don’t know what to expect, but we don’t want to antagonise anything that makes friendly overtures.” She stepped forwards. Her hand hovered close above the butt of the stun gun that lay in its hip holster. “Luis? Anything?”

Accaro gave a thumbs-up. “Gravity: nil, radiation: nil. Any radioactive power sources onboard are well-shielded. I’ve screened for hazardous chemicals, leakages and so on, and this ship’s as clean as a whistle, though I can’t rule out biological hazards yet. But we should be fine as long as we keep our suits on.”

“Good, let’s go.” Varishkova beckoned to the engineering team, then moved ahead of them all.

Chas glanced back just in time to see the engineering team climb into the airlock. The first suited figure to emerge into the corridor bore “HARKNESS” emblazoned on its chest in bold blue letters.

“Don’t dawdle!” Varishkova barked.

Chas hurried abreast of her. Behind him he heard Eddie speak into his recorder again.

They approached a bend in the corridor that followed the curve of the ship’s hull. On the door ahead a central line had once demarcated sliding doors; now it only split the top and bottom strips. Congealed gel smeared the edges. Beyond, the corridor curved.

Varishkova stopped at the door, hand raised. “Chas?”

He peered along the corridor. The size and shape of the doors argued the possibility the ship had been built and used by humanoids. But there was no sign of life.

“Nothing ahead. I’m going through.” Stun gun drawn, he stepped over the ruined door.

Varishkova followed, then overtook him, stun gun held two-handed before her. A fierce grin parted her lips.

Chas knew that grin. She’s enjoying herself. He passed her only when she’d settled against the bulkhead.

They encountered two more doors, one breached like the last. The other was intact, set in the corridor itself, and led off at a right angle.

“Nobody’s challenged us, and I don’t think there’s anyone onboard,” Chas said. “But something must have happened here, from the state of the doors.”

“It looks like something came aboard without permission,” Accaro agreed. “Shall we move on?”

Varishkova nodded and stood back, stun gun poised, and waited for the door to open. It didn’t. They bypassed it. “We’ll get the cutting crew in here,” she murmured.

They followed the curve of the corridor. There was another doorway ahead, sealed shut.

Chas felt the pulse thud in the heel of his hand again.

*

Eddie Harkness switched his recorder off as they approached the end of the corridor.

“Hear about Jouvin?” Brad Wilkerson asked.

“No. Don’t even know him.” Eddie exchanged a glance with Gaia Zwanji. They knew what to expect. Brad’s an incurable gossip.

“You do know him,” Brad persisted, “you’ve been here longer than me. He’s in the station maintenance crew, though his wife is Jim Martin’s deputy.” He allowed himself a smug smile. “He was disciplined for drinking on duty yesterday…”

Eddie shrugged. “Again?”

Brad’s smile gave way to petulance. “He should have been on the cutting crew today,” he muttered.

Eddie tapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, Brad, we have a job to do!” He jerked a thumb towards the chamber.

Beyond the smoke-hazed doorway, the cutting crew worked on the last door in the corridor. They moved the smoking panels aside with suction pads. Stun guns drawn, Varishkova’s marines checked out the room. “No-one in there,” Chas confirmed.

Eddie led his team into the room. This must be the bridge. The chamber was peopled only by several tall white columns with attached seating. At one end a white box-like structure mushroomed out of the floor, next to a line on the floor beyond which nothing occupied the space before the bulkhead. At eye level two large ports looked out on the hangar-like dock, one either side of the craft’s nose.

Eddie switched his recorder back on. “The room we’re in now looks like it could be the bridge.” He walked over to one of the columns. It bore a series of instruments, labelled in black characters. Eddie studied them for a moment. Ideograms. He checked the other columns. Only one bore a panel with glowing purplish tell-tales. Some cells on the panel were dark.

“The life support system?” Gaia suggested.

It seemed a reasonable guess. Eddie swung himself into one of the seats. “Mmm! Comfortable padding!” As he leaned forward, the seat moved under him.

“It’s adjusting itself,” Brad exclaimed, “moving you nearer the console!”

The chair was too long and narrow for Eddie’s fit, well-muscled six-foot-plus. “Strange…”

“What?” Brad’s forehead furrowed.

He’s a good engineer, Eddie thought, but he lacks imagination. Not to mention discretion. “The doors are intended for creatures taller than us –”

“That’s right,” Gaia broke in, “and these seats are narrow, but you’d expect the owners of the ship to be humanoid if they used chairs and doors.”

Eddie leaned towards the console. “Which of these controls the drive, d’you think?”

Brad and Gaia meandered between the columns; neither answered him. He saw Brad’s lips move as he counted under his breath. “Seven crew.”

“It seems too large for that. They probably work shifts. There are seven posts in here, but we can’t be sure of anything.” Gaia stopped.

“We won’t know till the marines have checked it out.” Eddie glanced round the room. Its advanced instrumentation and streamlined décor broadcast an unmistakable purpose. “This must be the bridge, but it seems dead. Perhaps the whole ship’s dead! But why would they just leave the ship unmanned?”

“Perhaps they didn’t expect to leave it?” suggested Gaia. “Or not for long. Maybe something happened after they left.”

“All of which leaves it for us.” Brad grinned. “Finders, keepers!”

Eddie frowned. “It’s apparently derelict,” he said, “and found in our Solar System, so we’ve salvaged it. But the owners may not see it like that, if we find them, or they find us…”

“Well, we haven’t found them yet!” Gaia smiled. She turned to the nearest column again. “O’course, you know who’s going to have to find out how all this works, don’t you?”

“Sure do!” Eddie tried to relate the symbols to his experience of engineering, but soon had to admit that nothing matched up. He sighed. We’ll need the cutting crews to get anywhere in this ship. He climbed out of the seat and watched as it returned to its previous position.

“The answers are here,” he said, “but unless we can decipher the language, we can’t find them.”

*

Chas sprinted past Varishkova, then stepped back against the bulkhead to check for signs of life. He held his gun ready, on stun. Seconds later, Varishkova overtook him.

Accaro gestured ahead to an opening in the bulkhead.

Varishkova said, “Cover me, Chas!” and strode into the breach.

The corridor curved sharply; Chas couldn’t see her – and out of the line of sight, the radio was useless inside the ship; its structure acted as a Faraday cage. The pulse hammered in his hand again. He breathed shallowly. Blood thundered in his ears. He stepped forwards, mouth dry, weapon raised.

As he rounded the bend, he saw Varishkova at another sealed doorway. He felt the pulse subside, and breathed in deeply. The others followed in pairs.

“Frantisek, Suzanne, get the cutting crew!” They nodded and left. Within minutes, they returned with the technicians.

“These doors are bastards to get through,” the crew chief groaned. “Wherever this ship comes from, the metal’s bloody hard there!” But they set to work on the first layer. Chas flattened himself against the bulkhead as they manhandled discarded door skins to one side. Smoke drifted from the hole. There was little room; the corridor wasn’t designed to accommodate such activities.

“Whatever breached the hull didn’t get this far,” Varishkova murmured.

The process of cutting through the door took about fifteen minutes. Chas relaxed and tucked his gun back into its holster. With a clang, the final skin came free. Varishkova beckoned to Chas to follow and stepped through.

He followed, gun in hand.

Varishkova’s cry of shock and disgust carried over her suit radio.

Chas couldn’t stop in time, and cannoned into an outstretched, stick-like limb. As it touched his spacesuit he glimpsed what floated in the microgravity. “Shit, what is it?” Chas backed into Suzanne, startled. Hands steadied him, but his heart thundered again.

The body was naked, but for a metallic band partway down the trunk, and featureless except for plates of shrunken black armour. Coarse grey hairs protruded between the plates. It had no arms or feet. One leg had broken off. The limbs were more like tendrils than legs.

“It’s not even humanoid –”

“Whatever it is, it’s been dead for some time,” Luis said.

“It’s –” Chas didn’t want to look again, but it was too close to avoid. The creature floated, frozen in time, appendages spread as if it reached for them. It was half his height. In one place a hole had been burned out of the creature’s trunk, and strings of internal matter floated in the microgravity, still attached to the body. The wound edges were sealed and shrunken.

It took Chas a moment to realise that there were no recognisable sensory organs. It was like looking at a body without a face. He shuddered.

“Sensors report no decay,” Luis said, “consistent with a low-oxygen environment.” He wrinkled his nose.

Chas saw his expression through the helmet faceplate.

“Could this creature have built and used this ship?” Varishkova asked.

Luis shook his head. “Unlikely,” he said. “It’s not tall enough or the right shape for the doors.” He consulted his analyser again. “According to this, it’s where that brown gel stuff came from.”

“One thing,” Chas muttered, hands raised as if to protect himself from the creature. “I don’t care if this is our first contact with an alien life-form. I don’t want to be near this thing!”

Nobody disagreed.

Varishkova sent Suzanne and Frantisek for medics. The marines waited while they arrived and sealed the creature into a body bag that was too large, and covered it with an isolation shield too, then moved away down the corridor with it.

The passage soon curved in a semi-circle that told of a large complex nearby, hidden in the ship’s depths. They moved on. They hadn’t gone far before Varishkova said, “I think we’re at the centre of the ship.”

“Perhaps the drive’s housed here.” Chas quickened his pace. “What’s that?” He pointed.

Just metres ahead, the otherwise featureless curve of the bulkheads showed rows of nozzles at the ceiling and floor levels. The black and silver hardware shocked the eye against the white background.

“Hmm. Hard to say.” Varishkova stepped up to the nozzles and examined them.

“The sprinkler system?” Luis suggested.

Chas wanted to laugh, but contented himself with a grin in Luis’s direction.

Halil eased forwards. The boot of his toe came in line with the nozzles. Nothing happened.

Luis too stepped nearer, analyser held out.

“It’s a –”

A flash of pale blue flame stole Chas’ sight. “Shiiiiit!” he gasped and jumped back by reflex. The analyser fell on the corridor floor with a clatter. When he could see again, Halil and Luis had vanished.

Varishkova had flattened herself against the bulkhead. “Christ, Halil, where are you?” she demanded. “Luis?”

Chas swallowed hard.

Varishkova looked weary. She sank to the floor, head in her hands. Suzanne squatted beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.

It was minutes before Varishkova spoke. “Suzanne, Frantisek,” she said. “Tell Eddie Harkness what’s happened and bring him here.”

Suzanne made a thumbs-up sign and clapped Frantisek on the shoulder. “Come on.”

When they’d gone, Chas went forward and retrieved the analyser. He handed it to Varishkova.

She hesitated, then took it. “Luis – was my lover,” she said as her hand closed around the grip.

“I didn’t know.” Chas put his hand on her wrist. He didn’t know what else to do. “I’m so sorry, Olga.”

Silence stretched between Chas and Varishkova. After several minutes she hauled herself upright, so Chas followed suit, but kept his hand on her arm. She was badly shaken. Chas felt the same, but Varishkova’s silence and his awkwardness prevented him from speaking.

At last Eddie arrived with the other two marines. “Suzanne told me what happened,” he said. “I’m so sorry about your two men! The cutting crew are on their way.”

Varishkova acknowledged that with a nod.

“I’m not sure what set this off, but it may be a defence system. We must assume they want to protect something here – probably the engines.” Eddie scanned the corridor, back and forth, as he spoke. Then he exclaimed, “Aah!” and crouched on hands and knees beside a section of the wall near the nozzles. He inserted the tip of a screwdriver under a panel set flush with the wall and nearly invisible. Beneath lay another panel.

“What have you found?” Varishkova asked. She squatted beside him. Her voice was stronger.

“Just what I was looking for.” Eddie pointed to several small symbols on the casing. “Looks like these people use ideograms to represent ideas, like some terrestrial languages,” he said, and jabbed a short, thick finger at one of the symbols.

“Maybe it turns off the force-field or whatever it was,” Chas suggested.

“My thought exactly,” Eddie said. He lifted the second panel. Underneath was a single black plate set into the wall. “Stand back, everyone.”

They obeyed.

Eddie isolated the power sources and touched the plate with his screwdriver. He avoided bridging the power source. The space between the two rows of nozzles glistened, then faded. Beyond it lay another unbreached door set into the bulkhead. As they approached, its two halves peeled back into the bulkhead.

Chas took the analyser from Varishkova’s hands, and he and Eddie peered through the opening. It was dark in the chamber beyond, but as Eddie stepped inside and Chas followed him, the light that dawned was softer than the dull white glare in the corridors. Its source was concealed on the ceiling, and partway down the walls.

Chas checked the analyser; the atmosphere was breathable with no biohazards. He pressed the switch on his suit shoulder that folded back the visor and the curved panels of the helmet. They retracted back to reveal his face. Eddie likewise stripped back his helmet and visor.

The chamber was circular, and the same matt white as everywhere else in the ship, other than the hazy silver of the floor. The planes of the room faded into one another, which reinforced the impression of spaciousness, as in the corridors. But this room wasn’t empty.

It held perhaps fifty horizontal transparent cases in rows. Each backed onto a boxy black console which supported the case that extended from it. On the consoles, coloured tell-tales – amber, lime green, orange-red and cobalt blue – shone or winked. There were illuminated readouts and graphs set into the black material.

Chas saw clearly into the two nearest cases. One contained a purplish-brown humanoid form that half-filled the case. Needles that extended from tubes which opened into either side of the case punctured the insides of each arm. A wide band of stretchy fabric prevented it from floating in the microgravity, and concealed the body from its lower abdomen to its thighs. He peered forwards. “Look,” he said. “Look, Eddie!” He pointed and put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I know.”

The figure in the case didn’t move. It looked to be asleep.

In the next case lay another, similar, humanoid, which filled the case. Chas mentally compared the monstrosity in the corridor to the two forms in their cases. He felt no instinctive revulsion, as he had on sight of the armoured being. Then he realised what he saw.

“Bloody hell!” His voice was soft with surprise. “They’re kids!” He turned to stare at Eddie. “They’re alien children!”

---

PART 2

---

CHAPTER 1 – The Man with Ginger Hair

Space elevator to Galatea Station, 17th September 2094.

BARBARA BERESKOVA SLUNG HER BAG over her shoulder, flipped her case onto its wheels to pull it along, and stepped into the public space elevator. The only person there before her was a stocky man in a faded khaki jacket. He nodded his shiny, shaved head and smiled at her, then sat in one of the seats and buckled himself in.

She allowed the ghost of a smile to hover around her lips and crease her cheek into its dimple. Then she disconnected her gaze from the man’s, found a seat in a corner, and rocked the case back onto its stand. She listened for further instructions as she fastened the seat restraints.

Next on board were a couple with a little girl who chattered incessantly, then a businesswoman with a document wallet tucked under her arm, and a sallow-faced man in a flat cap, with the sourest expression she’d ever seen. A trio of two men and a woman manhandled a holocam rig between them. Barbara’s gaze was drawn to the woman: immaculately dressed, made-up and coiffed, Barbara recognised her as Bonnie Smith, a well-known HV journalist. Her expensive navy blue tailored lapel bore a press badge; a glance told Barbara the two men with her were her cameraman and his assistant.

[Departing Kennedy Spaceport for Galatea Station. Inner and Outer airlock doors will close in two minutes,] came the PA announcement. [Lift-off in five minutes. Please stow luggage items in the bay adjoining the passenger car.]

As more people entered, the cameramen manoeuvred the holocam rig into the luggage bay at one side of the car and locked the brakes, then strapped it in place. Barbara pulled her suitcase after her and put it into a locker at the side of the luggage bay. The car had filled up when she returned; her original seat had gone. One seat remained, next to the grumpy-looking man, who’d placed his flat cap on the seat. With reluctance she asked him if he could move it. He lifted the cap with equal reluctance. She sat down and strapped herself in.

[Airlock doors closing now,] the PA announcement continued. [No further admittances. All passengers, please fasten your safety belts.]

Barbara saw that the grumpy man beside her hadn’t fastened his seat restraint. “Excuse me,” she said, “you should fasten your safety belt.”

His eyes focused on her mouth.

He’s lip-reading, she thought, and smiled at him and mimed fastening a seat belt.

The man turned a quizzical look on her. “Ah,” he said, “thank you.” His voice had normal intonation. He strapped himself in, then. As she leant towards him she noticed the scars behind his ears.

“My pleasure,” she said, and smiled again. But have his implants gone wrong or something?

[Lift-off in one minute.]

Barbara had been to Galatea Station on the space elevator once before. The turnaround was fast. Six passenger cars rode up and down the outside of the hexagonal structure, and kept up the flow of visitors into and out of the space station. The inner and outer doors functioned as an airlock, although commercial passengers and visitors weren’t required to wear spacesuits in the elevator or onboard the station. For JSEP staff, it was different; their jobs might require them to space-walk for maintenance or other purposes. She spotted one or two spacesuited passengers aboard. I’ll need to attach magnetic soles to my footwear to move around the space station. They were prohibited in the cars because they moved up and down the tether structure by maglev propulsion. I’ll get them out when I leave the passenger car.

[Lift-off in five seconds. Five…four…three…two…one.]

Lift-off was smooth and quiet. Barbara watched the Earthscape slide away into the distance and wondered about the man who sat beside her. He wheezed as he read his electronic copy of the Daily Despatch, which she could see well enough to read over his shoulder.

Then she looked around at the fifty or so other passengers. The journey to Galatea Station would take about an hour, so some read, worked, or watched movies on their devices, while others, like Barbara, glanced around the room, or out of the viewports to either side of the craft.

One man she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, though she tried not to make eye contact with him. Yet she felt his eyes on her several times, as if he were as curious about his fellow passengers as she was; and her gaze came back to rest on him several times. His ginger hair escaped from under the tilted brim of his bowler hat. It must be clipped on, Barbara realised. Bluish shades concealed his eyes; his dark suit was immaculate. Perhaps it’s that material you never need to press, she thought, as her gaze passed over him again.

When the sky outside the sightports had turned from blue to navy and approached black, the man next to her touched her arm to get her attention. “Beware of that ginger man,” he murmured. “He’s watching you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and cupped her hand to draw in it the sign of the circled hatchet with her finger. She held her breath, because someone not involved in the movement wouldn’t recognise the secret symbol; but if he did recognise it, he could be security.

He made the symbol back, and because she knew he was deaf, it looked natural, as if they signed to each other. She let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m returning the compliment,” he said in a low voice. “Paul Morgan. I’m your handler on Galatea Station. Careful – he’s looking this way again.” He passed her a card.

She looked at the card. It was an address in the German quarter on Galatea Station.

“It’s a safe house, in case you need to leave quickly or disappear for a few days, for whatever reason.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She tucked the card into her purse.

“Per appreciates your help,” he said.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Paul didn’t speak to her again during the journey, but said goodbye when the passenger car halted at the space station. She acknowledged him and went to collect her suitcase. She had to haul herself over to the luggage section in free fall. Her case floated, which should have made it easier to move, but prompted occasional collisions, one with the ginger man.

A reminder came from the passenger car PA to attach her Magnetix soles to her footwear for walking. Once out of the car she retrieved them and attached them to her black leather boots. At Immigration, she produced her travel documents, which were duly stamped. Then she caught the autonomous tram to her hotel.

*

Zero, Ship’s date: 407.73.6.28.483 AD. 17th September 2094.

Omol brought up a starmap in the shuttle’s simtank and studied it for some thousandths. He and Tangar had tracked the Bekel to its last co-ordinates, before the hyperspace jump. But they hadn’t had time to follow up this work, thanks to the chronic lack of resources on this planet. He’d decided to name the planet “Zero”, as there wasn’t much of use there.

“Computer, show positions of the Kemeen and the Velakta on the main starmap.”

Two white dots appeared, neither near the Declaini system or their current position.

“Computer, show commgrid range from our position.”

A pale green sphere appeared in the tank, showing a small range. No chance of sending out a distress signal using the shuttles’ commgrid. The short-run craft didn’t normally need more powerful communications equipment.

Omol sagged in his seat. He knew they were trapped here; he didn’t need a reminder. “Show the last recorded position of the Bekel in the Declaini system.”

A third white dot appeared beside the Declaini system.

He checked the ship’s time and date entries. Almost three years ago. With an effort, he sat up straighter. “Computer, calculate a hyperspace jump from the last recorded position of the Bekel. What’s the maximum range they could have travelled?”

A large pink sphere spread out through the simtank, the white dot of the Bekel at its centre.

Now where would they have gone? He peered into the tank. “Show me any star systems with even the beginnings of spaceflight.”

Another seven systems sprang into being, marked by purple dots. Close to the edge of the pink sphere lay a system with several planets. One had a large moon that caused tidal bulges around the planet as it orbited.

“Computer, now show the last recorded hyperspace destination –”

“Sorry to disturb you, Omol,” Tangar said, and peered into the shuttle from the airlock. “We’ve just heard from the satellite launch team in the other functional shuttle.”

Omol’s heart jumped with hope. Even should the Voth pick the message up, they wouldn’t be able to decrypt it. Voth ships lacked hyperspace technology – though they’d given the Kiai leadership holocomms, for battle co-ordination.

 “What did they say?” As soon as he heard his voice, Omol realised how impatient it sounded.

“The satellite blew up a few thousandths after launch. It didn’t even make it into orbit. I’m so sorry.”

Omol flopped back in his chair with a sigh. Everything on this planet is shit, he thought. Our only chance of being rescued just let us down, and I’ve just wasted a few thousandths trying to track the Bekel. Why did I even bother?

“It’s not your fault, Tangar,” he muttered. “Thanks for letting me know.”

*

As the autonomous tram forged into the tunnel Barbara realised the ginger-haired man in the bowler hat was ahead of her. Perhaps Paul was being a bit paranoid? But he came level with her at the door, then passed her. She switched on the magnet in the base of her case so as to tow the suitcase behind her.

She entered the foyer of the hotel. And again, the man in the bowler hat waited ahead of her in the queue at reception.

It could just be coincidence that he’s chosen this hotel, she thought, but I’ll know for sure if he follows me where I’m going.

After he’d registered, he strode to the lift. He didn’t make eye contact with her. Barbara tried to put him out of her mind as she registered, went to her room, and rested for half an hour, then sought a meal.

As she left the restaurant, she caught a glimpse of the bowler hat in the distance, and remembered Paul’s warning. She stopped in the walkway that sandwiched the tram routes to consult the map on her tablet. Her sources had told her the alien spacecraft was docked away from the general berths, and was guarded. She could take the tram to a nearby stop but must walk the rest of the way. Her legs were already tired from unaccustomed use of the Magnetix, but the job must be done. She’d promised her cousin.

A tram pulled up. She stepped onboard. A glance around the car assured her that there were no bowler-hatted ginger men in it, and she sat down. At her stop, she got off, but checked the walkway to the docking area again. It was clear.

In the docking area, she entered the public viewing gallery, and marvelled at the vessels waiting for despatch there. The Mars run supply ship Tsiolkovsky lay next to a huge JSEP Explorer-class vessel. Workers refuelled and restocked ships with supplies for their next voyage. She risked a sideways glance to where the alien ship should be docked. A steady stream of silver-suited workers in that direction suggested a shift changeover might be imminent.

On the door from the viewing gallery she saw a notice: 

NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT A SPACESUIT

That gave her an idea. She explored the area behind the viewing gallery and found a suit rental agency. “We can store your personal effects here, for a small extra fee,” the proprietor told Barbara. “We get a lot of passing trade from all the workers they’ve brought in to explore that alien ship.”

A few minutes later, a silver-suited figure locked her effects away and slipped out of the viewing gallery to follow the workers. And a five-minute walk to follow the workers led Barbara Bereskova to the dock she sought.

She stared up at the alien ship. It filled the dock, its hull a great mirror-dome of metal engineered so perfectly as to appear seamless. A lightweight metallo-plastic walkway led to the damaged airlock. The walkway’s upper section billowed above Barbara, deforming in response to the pressure of the solar wind and the Coriolis force as the space station orbited Earth. The segmented flooring wasn’t as flexible, but walkers’ footsteps nevertheless produced a series of metallic clangs and a rolling motion similar to waves in a tide on it.

Barbara shivered as she joined the queue of workers waiting to enter the ship via the walkway. She craned forwards to see, as a stream of workers returned across the walkway to Galatea Station, pushing one…two…three gurneys. Something important’s happening.

The workers raised their hands, though their applause was silent in the space station. Barbara joined in belatedly.

She looked around and several would-be workers were as curious as she was about the occupant of that first gurney. It was the size of a human seven-year-old, and was hooked up to various life-support systems. Then the next gurney passed and the form on it was longer than an adult human male, but more slender in build.

What Barbara saw amazed her. And the third gurney confirmed her suspicions. That form was in between the sizes of the previous two. These are children and adults.

No time for further speculation. A man delivered empty gurneys, similarly equipped with life support facilities, and gathered groups of four workers at a time to push the gurneys onto the walkway to take them onboard the alien ship.

She felt a sensation of butterflies in her stomach when she saw him gesture to her and another three space-suited figures. He pushed a gurney towards them. They clustered around it and pushed it towards the walkway.

Once on it she was glad of her Magnetix. They crossed the walkway and entered the airlock. Magnets in the gurney prevented it from floating away. She hoped none of the others would flick back their helmets, or the game could be up for her.

When the airlock gauges registered the correct air pressure the other side of the airlock slid open. They walked out, concentrating on wheeling the gurney between them – a hard task in microgravity. The white of the corridors soothed her sight, and the floors were a haze of silvery metal. Barbara tried to remember the route, in case she needed to escape. The problem was, all the corridors looked alike. How would I remember which way I came?

Eventually they arrived at a large chamber with softer lighting than the corridors. Barbara glimpsed rows of equipment with tubes and other fitments that disappeared below the transparent cases. Some were empty. But over half contained an occupant; some small, others full-grown.

The team wheeled their gurney into the chamber and waited in line until directed towards a bay. The medical crews worked with their helmets open. They opened and swung up the transparent case, disconnected various tubes from the naked figure, and gently removed cannulas from its arms, then lifted the small figure and laid it on the gurney. It took just moments to insert new cannulas and connect in-transit life-support tubes and needles. Then they covered the child with a thermal blanket. On a shelf under the gurney they stowed a container that resembled a backpack, and secured it with clips.

“What’s that?” Barbara asked her nearest co-worker, pointing at the backpack.

“They each have one of those. We assume the symbols have their names on as they’re all different.” The man stared into her faceplate. “Are you one of the new people they’ve drafted in to help with all of this?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. Glad to have your help.”

“Thank you. Glad to be here.” She pointed at the backpack. “Has anyone tried to open one of these?”

“Nobody’s yet succeeded – they’re probably morphometric locks. If they hadn’t shorted out the lock to this room they wouldn’t have found the children.” The man beckoned them on. “Let’s get this one to the medical facility.”

The crew set to, though their charge barely changed the weight of the gurney. As Barbara tucked the thermal blanket under the child’s shoulder, she realised how thin it was. They probably weren’t meant to sleep for a long time, she reasoned, since the ship was derelict when they found it.

As Barbara concentrated on pushing the gurney, she noticed that the blanket had slipped off the sleeping alien child. She reached down and tucked the edge under its leg.

And then she saw that a space-suited figure that watched nearby sported a ginger moustache and matching eyebrows. The stolid build was familiar despite the lack of a bowler hat.

The team pushed the gurney across the walkway, and on to a field hospital facility set up to check the children’s vital signs. No attempt was made to wake them. It’s probably easier to keep them sedated for the Earthwards trip, Barbara reasoned. Several gurneys already awaited processing. Another team prepped them for shuttle embarkation, the only way to get them to Earth and maintain their sedation.

Several more trips, back and forth, and the shift ended. On those trips there was some desultory conversation between the workers in the team.

“My nephew, Denny, is in the Presidential security team,” one of the men said. “According to him, the World President asked for suggestions of how to sabotage their revival so it would look accidental.”

 “Can they do that?” Barbara asked. “What if these children’s parents show up?”

“Just what I said,” a woman replied.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” Denny’s uncle regarded Barbara. “But Denny said that was discussed when they found them.”

There’s a story with an interesting twist here, Barbara realised.

*

Continental Hotel restaurant, Galatea Station, Several hours later.

I’ll come back tomorrow and try to get into another part of the ship for a look around. But for now, Barbara thought, I’m going back to the hotel for a meal and bed. I’ll send Paul my report, though. As she left the locker room, the rental spacesuit back in its place and her clothes back where they belonged, she glanced around for the ginger man.

He was nowhere to be seen. Barbara let go of the breath she’d held and stepped out into the corridor. She hoped she didn’t look suspicious as she walked back to the tram stop. The tram soon arrived. She was back at the hotel within the half-hour. An hour later, she entered the hotel restaurant and requested a table for one.

A robot waiter led her to a table laid for two off the main walkway. She seated herself facing the door, to see who entered. But she could also be seen. She drew a deep breath and ordered from the menu.

Astronaut food had hardly changed from the days of the first explorations, and her starter of mushroom pâté arrived in a sealed bag, with crisp crackers in another, on a tray, no plates in sight. Everything was held down with clips, magnets or Velcro. She squeezed the pâté tube onto a cracker. She’d just popped it into her mouth and lifted the bev-pouch of rosé when a familiar face appeared.

The ginger man held his bowler in his hand. His moustache and eyebrows matched his hair, and the grey eyes scanned the room, but didn’t linger on anyone in particular.

She chewed her pâté cracker and sipped rosé through the bev-pouch’s straw. She hoped that would obscure her face. Her heart thundered.

He ignored her, strode past, and made for a table at the back. He sat down and clipped his bowler into place. Some conversation ensued between him and the robot waiter. Eventually it trundled away.

Barbara watched him covertly over the bev-pouch. He didn’t seem interested in her; he looked often at his phone instead. She relaxed, determined to enjoy her meal. The pâté was delicious, and the chilled wine helped her relax. Her chicken dish and vegetables were well-prepared, and she enjoyed them, despite the feeling that she sparred with the ginger man.

*

Barbara’s room, next day (18^th September 2094), 08.20 am.

Barbara had sent her report to the Neoluddites the previous night, as arranged, but had yet to report her findings to her work – which had footed the bill for her trip in the expectation of a scoop. It was now urgent that she do so.

She sent the amended copy of the report (with references to Langrishe’s original plan for the children removed) from her room at the Continental, and cast a glance around it as she did so. Her case had never been unpacked, apart from the basics. It might be best to leave it somewhere to collect later. There were luggage lockers at the Space Elevator terminus. The safe house could be my route back to Earth. She gathered up her belongings and slipped them into the case.

Now that she knew about the children it seemed logical that there would be security forces to protect them and even keep their existence secret for whatever reason. I’m sure JSEP’s like most other large organisations, she reminded herself. They all have their secrets…

*

Don Harris sipped his coffee and scanned his newsreader. He glanced around the room from time to time, and once, at the clock on the wall. 08.37 EDT. Barbara Bereskova, his main suspect, hadn’t yet made it to breakfast.

She was one of several potential Neoluddite spies. He’d delegated some of the work to keep tabs on them; one person couldn’t do it all. He’d been there for over an hour; in another they’d stop serving. He sighed and raked his hands through his mop of ginger hair. Perhaps she’ll get breakfast somewhere else. Maybe she’s already left –

He broke off mid-thought as Bereskova entered the restaurant. She chose a seat at a table on the other side of the room, clipped her jacket to the back of the chair, and sauntered off to select breakfast from the buffet.

Don raised the newsreader and congratulated himself – he’d found a table screened from view by the biggest Swiss cheese plant he’d ever seen, from where he could see the room and anyone who entered. Plants were dotted about the room to clean the atmosphere and improve the environment.

He thought of Hardy and his mission. Knowing his attention to detail, he’d find out as much about the alien ship from Eddie Harkness and Dr Chapaire (or ‘the old bird’, as Hardy called her) as he could before he debriefed the children.

Now that some equipment functions have been identified, the children can be revived. Just as well they’ll go to Earth for that. They should be kept away from the likes of the Neoluddites. Don sipped his coffee. And the World President.

He got himself another coffee, returned to his seat, and allowed his gaze to linger on the journalist for a moment. Her brown hair was tied back into a tight ponytail this morning, and her grey eyes scanned the room as if she expected something to happen. Well, she’s a reporter, he reasoned. She’ll always be on the look-out for anything she can work up into a story –

She turned to face him as if she sensed his gaze on her.

He dropped his newsreader on the floor, and bent to retrieve it. With any luck, she’ll miss my presence when she looks over here, and I won’t be compromised. And my reader will still work.

*

Barbara turned Paul Morgan’s card over in her hand and wondered what to do.Her discovery the previous day was important, but she wasn’t sure whether or not to try to find out more. But she judged it urgent to contact Paul and check that the Neoluddites had her information before it became public knowledge. I’m sure Per Lakshar will be interested, especially in the dirt on World President Langrishe.

She liftedthe bev-pouch of coffee to her lips and took a sip. She glanced around the restaurant. The ginger man sat at the back of the room; he divided his concentration between his drink, his phone and his news reader. She took her phone from her bag, routed the message through a VPN, and selected the number Paul had given her. She sent him a text to the effect that the ginger man popped up wherever she went.

A text soon came back: Exit. Take the tour.

Take the tour? What does that mean? In case of disaster, she erased the text, and checked the interactive map of the space station she’d downloaded to her phone. There were tours of Galatea Station that included a trip to the original International Space Station, around which Galatea Station was built. They ran all day, and the stop-off point was near Paul’s safe house. She booked on her phone. And as soon as she’d finished her coffee, croissant and fruit, she got up, put on her jacket, and headed for the door.

*

Impatience thundered in Don’s veins, but he followed her progress on his phone. For some reason she’d returned to her room. He selected Hardy’s number.

Hardy’s holo sprang up over the tank of his phone. “How’s it going, Don?”

“OK. I’ve had visual contact with several suspects for the last two days, but one checked out: Barbara Bereskova, a journalist of Russian extraction. She was on the space elevator – I made background checks. She works for an Earth-based internet news agency, The Daily Update. There was another suspect on the space elevator as well – a Paul Morgan. I made enquiries…he’s profoundly deaf, but has links to the Neoluddites. They spoke together a little.”

“I know of Paul Morgan. He used to be a handler in JSEP security, but a few years ago he became disillusioned. I guess the Neoluddites radicalised him. Then he disappeared from observation, and I didn’t know he’d relocated to Galatea Station. And your journalist – Bereskova – I take it you’re keeping a keen eye on her?”

“I am. Hardy, she knows what they found on the spaceship. She even helped bring some of the children out of the ship.”

“What? How did she do that? She’d need a spacesuit.”

Don shrugged. “There are commercial rental premises here. That’s what she did – I confirmed it with them. She sneaked in before I got there – while I made sure she didn’t realise I was on her tail. Anyway, I saw her help push one of the gurneys to the field checks station. Er – where are you now?”

Hardy sighed. “Waiting for my appointment with WP Langrishe. The President has to authorise the children’s revival once I’ve briefed him on any threat they might represent. Once they’ve been revived, I debrief the kids. Then he debriefs me!”

Don chuckled.

“Where are you?”

“Back at the hotel. I’ve traced Bereskova’s messages, though. I had some trouble acquiring the details from the telecoms company – breach of confidentiality and so on – but they co-operated when I mentioned the CEO’s personal indiscretion. Bereskova’s contacted Morgan, but not her newspaper – yet. I hope to stop the story from getting out.”

“It’s up to you to ensure it doesn’t. Sorry I can’t be there, though you are much better- suited than I am to working in space.”

“No worries, I’ll keep you posted.” Don closed the call and strode back to his room.

Don opened the door. Although the hotel had attempted to make the room as attractive and homely as possible, furniture had to be bolted to the floor and equipment couldn’t be left loose in microgravity conditions. Global warming and the need for sustainability had led to a return to remote-less appliances. He tramped over to the entertainment centre and put the HV on, then extricated his feet from his shoes. Within seconds he floated. He sighed a gusty sigh of relief and wiggled his toes.

The voice of the newsreader faded in. “…and from Galatea Station comes a report on The Daily Update that an alien ship has been found in the Solar System. Here’s our science reporter, Bonnie Smith, with the full story.” The face of a woman filled the small holotank: blonde hair, cute button nose, and lips the colour of ripe strawberries.

Don remembered Bonnie and her HV crew from the space elevator. Perhaps they were there to cover the same story as Bereskova.

 “Hello, and welcome to another science bulletin. A report that appeared in this morning’s Daily Update states that an alien spaceship found in orbit around Titan, Saturn’s moon, was brought back to Earth and docked at Galatea Station for examination. This will take a while, but in the meantime, alien children have been found aboard the ship, in suspended animation. They are on their way to Earth to be revived. More as we find out what happens to them. Follow this story on our website, Space News, as it develops. This has been Bonnie Smith, reporting from Kennedy Spaceport.”

Don groaned. He checked The Daily Update, then the Neoluddites’ official website. The headlines were all over both of them.

Hardy won’t be pleased – and President Langrishe definitely won’t.

---

CHAPTER 2 – An Unexpected Phone Call

Galatea Station, 18th September 2094, 09.04 EDT.

DON HARRIS DIALLED Hardy’s number. He’s due to meet with Langrishe this morning.

“Don!” Hardy said, “I didn’t expect to hear from you till this afternoon.”

“Can you speak, Hardy?”

“I’m about to go into the meeting, but yes, if it’s quick.”

“I think you should know – the President will be in a mood.”

“Langrishe? Why? What’s happened?”

“Haven’t you seen?”

“Seen what?”

“It’s all over the internet. The Daily Update broke the story about the children. The Neoluddites’ site has it as well.” Don lowered his voice. “That Bereskova woman must have contacted The Daily Update and our terrorist friends – something like this would be a huge feather in their collective cap!” He sighed. “Space News has it too, though it looks like they got it from The Daily Update. I’m very sorry, Hardy. I must have missed something. Shall I move in and arrest her now?”

“That’s a good idea. Make it swift, before she can do more damage or get away. Despatch a JSEP squad from Galatea Base to arrest Paul Morgan and his cell – I’ve had men on stand-by. Call this number to make arrangements with them.” Hardy quoted the number. “And text me a holo of your mother when you’ve arrested Bereskova.” They sent bizarre pre-arranged images to each other to signify mission objectives achieved or missed.

With that, Hardy rang off.

*

The White House, Washington.

Hardy Brencher knocked on the door of the Oval Office. I wonder whether I’ll still have a job after this meeting, he thought. He’d read the reports Don had highlighted to him, and intended to ask his own questions.

Don Harris was Hardy’s best agent; his report had come as a shock. Hardy had thought everything was under control up on Galatea Station. I should have gone, he thought, but space and I don’t mix. And an unavoidable drawback of his new job as head of security on JSEP’s Project First Contact was that World President Langrishe wanted his direct input, especially where the threat the children might represent was concerned.

“Come in!”

Hardy entered the Oval Office.

“Brencher! Why has The Daily Update blabbed about the children? I thought you said you’d sent your best man?”

“I did, and he’s watched Bereskova like a hawk. But an ex-JSEP employee who’s now a Neoluddite has also surfaced on Galatea Station, and Harris and a team based there have gone to arrest them both.”

“You should have sent more agents.” Langrishe had worked himself up into a rage. The bloated face, normally smooth, was creased.

“Several thousand people live and work on Galatea Station, Sir. A security squad would have aroused suspicions and public panic.” Hardy drew in a deep breath, then coughed in the fug. Tobacco of all types was now contraband. Despite this, the air in the room was stale with cigar smoke, and the ashtray full of cigar stubs.

“I guess – but those reports could damage me – and I’ve an election in two years’ time!”   

“Mr President, Sir?” Hardy Brencher cleared his throat. “I’ve read the reports. The Neoluddites’ site mentions a plan to do away with the children instead of reviving them. Who…suggested that?”

“It was…something I toyed with.”

“You must avoid that and revive the children. Their parents could turn up at any moment. Show them you acted in their best interests, and you’ll avoid an interplanetary war.”

“This is your advice, Brencher?”

“It is. Think how angry they’d be if they came here and found their children dead. And think how you might feel if a society that salvaged your ship for their purposes had killed your child!” He slowed his speech and lowered his voice. “Then think how you’d feel if they’d been educated, accepted into our society, and raised in the human way, while their parents were absent, whereabouts unknown.”

“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” Langrishe said, and thought for a minute or two. “That would wrong-foot the Neoluddites, and we might gain public approval if we can be seen to do right by the children.”

“If you think you’ll impress the Neoluddites, I’m not sure they’re that easily influenced.” Hardy snapped his fingers. “That’s it – that’s what we have to do!”

“What?” 

“Hold a press conference about the existence of the children. Don’t mention that information’s got out, or about the drive or the dead alien. Release the information yourself, worldwide, now – or as soon as possible. Squash the rumours about putting the children down by taking positive action: show you can extend humanitarianism to these children. Take the initiative and seize the moment! You have to wrong-foot these terrorists.”

Langrishe calmed down as he thought about the idea. “You know, that could just work.” He puffed on his latest cigar. Then he reached for the phone.

*

Fifteen minutes later.

Hardy returned to the Oval Office after a visit to the rest room, during which he’d also gone outside for fresh air.

“OK, I admit it! You’re right about the press conference, Hardy,” President Langrishe said, as Hardy opened the door. “I’ve set it up for four p.m. today.” He drew smoke in, then exhaled. “I’ve given it further thought. We might make new friends with these aliens, with their fancy tech, if we do right by their kids.”

“Exactly!”

“I have several problems – I’m concerned that the children might breed if they’re kept together. And if religious organisations around the world heard I’d allowed them to breed together, there’d be trouble. People think it’s their human right to breed like rabbits, and I want to avoid a repetition of the Population Law riots. Or, the kids might plot against us – but I’ve had an idea that’ll get round all those eventualities.”

That’s it, focus attention away from your more inappropriate ideas! Hardy thought. He composed his face into an expression of polite inquiry.

The President explained.

“I follow your drift,” Hardy said. “Maybe they know of something that can tell us how the drive works?”

The President raised his brows. “A manual, you mean? Perhaps they do. And think of the benefits this drive could bring us. The ship has come from another star system. If we can find out how it works, we can go there, or to any system. Our population explosion would no longer be such a problem – we might not even need the Population Laws any more. That would make voters happy.”

Which might just keep you in power, Hardy thought. He’d followed President Langrishe’s logic, but didn’t like the sound of it. Still, his inner voice told him, you don’t have to like it. You only have to do your job. “If we can find uninhabited planets to colonise,” he pointed out. “But perhaps they’ll know of those as well.” 

*

Continental Hotel, Galatea Station.

Barbara checked out on the terminal in her room, stepped outside it and locked the door, walked to the lift, and towed her case behind her. When the lift arrived she got in and went to the ground floor.

There was a commotion at Reception. Half a dozen station police were in an argument with the receptionist and one of the guests. It didn’t look important, and might provide a distraction while she left the hotel.

Barbara pushed between families, couples, single people, and groups of tourists led by tour guides, pulling her case after her. She detoured only to post her room key into a self-seal receptacle as she left.

*

Don consulted his phone map of the space station and considered his options as he watched Bereskova board the tram on his phone tracker monitor. He’d seen in real-time Paul Morgan’s message that told her to go on the tour, which would route her to the safe house he’d despatched the JSEP security squad to. In that direction, the nearest stop-off on the tour was the ISS. He could meet the security squad and wait for her at the safe house with them.

He sipped his tea through the pouch’s integral straw. He checked the tram timetable on his phone. Tour trams ran every 15 minutes. The tram that carried Bereskova left the hotel frontage as he watched.

Don finished his tea and texted the security squad leader. Then he got up and sauntered to the exit. The tram stop was outside the foyer. When the next one came, Don got on.

*

The tram rumbled over its guide rails. The itinerary took in several popular tourist spots, but Barbara could stop off at any of them and rejoin the tour later. That’s handy. She dropped her luggage off at the space elevator terminus, and got on the next tram. 

At the ISS stop she got off. She’d purchased a code from Reception for entry; a credit chip was traceable. She showed the code on her phone and joined the other tourists and the guide as they trotted down the corridor to the old space station. Another door, and there it was. It floated in a glass bubble, enclosed by the space station built around it.

The bubble was enormous. Barbara was impressed in spite of herself. As a journalist she’d seen extraordinary sights, buildings and events. Although she’d seen this on HV, close up it was the most imposing sight she’d ever seen.

“It was incorporated in the new space station as a symbol of the worldwide co-operation that helped to build Galatea Station,” the guide explained, “as it was also built with world-wide co-operation.”

“Great symbol,” a woman tourist said.

The guide pointed out various parts of the ISS: the solar panels, fully extended within the bubble; the science areas, exercise suite, and living quarters. Pictures on the walls of the huge bay showed conditions inside it. It looks cluttered compared to the alien spaceship, Barbara thought. 

After three-quarters of an hour or so visitors drifted away, one by one. Barbara didn’t want to be the first to leave, but felt the pressure of her mission. It’ll be fine to move on now, she thought. 

She left the building, passed the tram tunnel and headed for the safe house.

*

At each stop Don checked on his phone for Bereskova’s position. He arrived at the ISS stop and saw she’d alighted. So did he. But he wasted no time visiting the ISS. Instead, he made for the safe house as soon as he’d texted the security squad leader again. 

*

At the door to the address on the card Barbara hesitated and glanced around. She felt uneasy, but there was no sign of the ginger man. She rang the bell.

The intercom squawked, “Who’s calling?”

Barbara turned the card over. On the back was scrawled, ‘Initials.’

“BB.”

“Your voiceprint matches. Come in.”

Barbara stepped inside with relief.

Paul met her in the hall. “Are you in trouble?”

“I’m not sure. That man from the space elevator…he was at my hotel.”

“Was he now?” Paul showed no trace of the deafness he’d exhibited in the space elevator.

“He was at the place where they’re bringing the children out –” 

“Thechildren are one hell of a scoop for you,” Paul said. “I read your report on our website –”

Barbara nodded. “But it worries me that they could be under threat of extermination by the World President. What he does could have a massive impact on everyone on Earth.”

“He didn’t think it through properly,” Paul agreed. “Let’s talk to Per about it.” 

“I’ve been worried about talking to anyone through the usual channels, in case it comes back to me.”

“We have quantum communications equipment in the basement. Come with me.”

Barbara followed Paul down a flight of metal steps into the basement. He led her to a desk in the corner of the room and gestured for her to sit in the chair there. A quantum computer took up much of the room.

They spoke to Per Lakshar, who assured them not to worry, he would deal with it. “You’ve done enough,” he said, and thanked her. Paul assured her it would be safe to leave now, so they went upstairs together. “Uh-oh!” Paul said, and indicated a shadow on the frosted glass of the front door.

“What is it?” Barbara whispered.

The sound of splintering plastic and glass curtailed Paul’s answer.

“JSEP Security. Open up and surrender!” someone boomed through a megaphone. “JSEP Security. Open up and surrender!”

Someone put a hand through the hole in the front door to open it. Several burly men entered and made a beeline for them. They handcuffed and arrested Paul.

Someone stepped in front of her. It forced her to stop.

“Good morning, Ms Bereskova,” said the man with ginger hair.

*

Hardy Brencher’s phone vibrated as a message arrived. He checked it and found a holo of a middle-aged woman with ginger hair. He smiled to himself.

“What are you smiling about?” Langrishe demanded.

“My agent has arrested Bereskova –”

“Damned journalists!” Langrishe grumbled.

“– And the security squad have arrested Paul Morgan.”

Langrishe looked relieved. One of his phones rang. He picked it up. “Hi, Hayley, yes, put him through.” His hand shut off the image as he covered the receiver and leant forwards to tell Hardy, “It’s Jim Martin.”

“For me?”

“Both of us.” He put the sound on speaker and the holo of the CEO of JSEP sprang up above the phone.

Martin greeted them. “I’m told the alien ship is powered by a suspected FTL drive. If that’s the case, JSEP will want to reverse-engineer that technology for a new spacefleet.”

Hardy listened without comment and memorised the information.

“I thought you might,” Langrishe said. “Hardy here has just updated me on the situation up on Galatea Station.”

“Most of the children are on Earth now,” Martin said. “I take it you’ll keep them together once revived?”

“It makes sense from a security point of view, for them and for JSEP, if you’re asking my opinion,” Hardy interjected.

“Can you authorise revival now, Mr President, Sir?” Martin asked.

“I – yes,” Langrishe replied, with only a momentary hesitation and a glance in Hardy’s direction.

“I’ll expect you to debrief the children thoroughly once we’ve revived them, Hardy,” Martin said.

 “I anticipated that,” Hardy murmured.

“Any information from them about the ship, the whereabouts of their parents, and their society in general will be useful.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir,” Hardy said, “and perhaps we should add to that anything we can find out about the interplanetary situation, bearing in mind the presence of the dead alien.”

“It’s vital to discover that, now that someone’s allowed the information about the children to be pasted all over the internet,” Langrishe muttered.

Hardy ignored the pointed comment.

“But the dead alien is the last thing that should get out, if you want to avoid panic,” Martin said.

“If I were in the President’s position, I’d really want to find out how the dead alien came to be onboard, and what its relationship to the children and their parents is.” Hardy crossed his legs.

“It’d be very useful to know that,” Langrishe added. “But don’t mention it unless the children do.”

“I’ll send you my report later today, Jim, but I can summarise it now.” Hardy updated him on the events on Galatea Station.

 “I’m none too pleased with the way it’s been handled,” Langrishe commented. 

“Of course, Sir.” Martin’s tone was soothing. “But you can take comfort – not all the information posted on the Neoluddites’ website was sourced from Bereskova. Some came from other agents on Galatea Station.”

“That so?” The president’s tone was sceptical.

 “We have several goals, then,” Martin said. “I’ll get my people on them. Thank you for the authorisation, and goodbye.”

Langrishe picked up and drained a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The holophone rang again. He picked it up. He listened for a moment, then roared, “Well, damn well put him THROUGH, then!”

*

Neoluddite safe house, Moscow.

Per Lakshar was surprised to hear the World President’s voice and see his image spring up above his phone. He hadn’t expected to get through the layers of security. Grigori was right, he thought, and felt even greater respect for his Head of Operations.

“I hear Per Lakshar wants to speak with me,” Langrishe said. “Are you he?”

“You know perfectly well who I am,” Per Lakshar said. “And yes, I did ask to speak with you.”

“How dare you make such a demand?”

“I dare a lot of things. You should know that by now, President Langrishe –”

The president continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Especially during a very important meeting –”

Per Lakshar gave a burst of laughter. “Oh, yes,” he chuckled, as his mirth subsided. “I can just picture you, meeting your generals and commodores to decide if the children are a threat or not.” There was a snort of incredulity at the other end of the line. “Can I suggest that my movement is more of a threat to you at this moment?” He saw the president exchange a glance with an unseen person nearby. That means there’s a witness. That puts things in a different perspective.

*

Hardy caught Langrishe’s eye. “Keep him talking,” he mouthed. Langrishe sent him an imperceptible nod, and he got to work with an app on his notebook. How long I can do that controls Brencher’s ability to trace the call, he thought, but it’s worth a try anyhow.

“Our agents report firstly that there were more than thirty alien children onboard the ship, and secondly that there’s a plan to kill them off and take the FTL drive that ship contains for Earth. So we want a slice of that: once the CRC have allocated colonists to Mars and the Moon, they can use the drive to find us a planet where humans haven’t already wrecked the environment and we can start afresh with a low-tech settlement.”

“And why would we do this for a group of terrorists?” inquired President Langrishe. 

“Because I shall reveal your plans for the children, which my agents assure me have been in place ever since the discovery of the ship and its inhabitants –”

“I don’t have any plans in place that I wouldn’t want to share publicly,” Langrishe interrupted.

 Per Lakshar ignored him. “– to the wider world if we don’t get access to a new planet for resettlement, once you’ve copied the drive.”

“I’ll consider it when our new space fleet is ready.”

“I need more commitment than that. You may not be president then.”

President Langrishe sighed. “I don’t think you understand the situation. I may be World President, but I can’t just make a decision like that. There are many factors to consider. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to find, research and allocate a suitable new planet?”

“I have looked into this. I’m not asking for it tomorrow morning, I realise it will take time to put everything in place –”

“Great, I’m glad you do!” President Langrishe toyed with the new cigar he took out of the box on his desk. “There are more deserving groups of potential colonists in the world than just the Neoluddites, sir! There are all those people affected by the megafamines, climate change, since we lost agricultural land –”

“And whose fault was that? Who was responsible for the lack of political will to put in motion unpalatable remedies for climate change caused by Capitalist greed and the energy demands of the high-tech lifestyle? Ordinary people may have created some of the problems we’ve faced this century, but many do their bit for the environment and try to mitigate climate change. But there are growing numbers of people who think like I do – that we need a place to start over, without heavy industry to fuck up the atmosphere, the environment and our chance to avoid extinction. Many of those affected by megafamines, rising sea level and climate change are with me on this. We have two billion members worldwide. Not all of them would go so far as to blow up iconic buildings in the name of our movement, and we don’t ask that. Most just want that chance of survival for their families elsewhere.”

    “I don’t doubt your sincerity, Per. But the more people you have who want to leave Earth, the less likely we are to be able to meet your demands.”  

“So what’s with this policy of prevention of our members from joining the colonies on Mars and the Moon, then?”

“We have to think about the security implications of each person that joins a base. Anyway, considering you dislike the idea of yet more tech, why would you send people to live in conditions where they have to depend on life support systems?”

“Good question!” Per Lakshar riposted. “We’d rather have a planet with a breathable atmosphere to start with.” He smiled in a knowing way. “We are something of a thorn in your side. Wouldn’t you prefer us gone from Earth?”

President Langrishe gripped the cigar with his teeth. “Good question! Look, I’ll take it that you’ve put in an application. But don’t forget – the drive has yet to be reverse- engineered.”

*

“Ah yes, the drive. Well, whatever kind of drive it is, I’m sure you don’t want us to follow up the announcement about the existence of these children on our website with another that reveals what you’re going to do to them to get the drive –”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I’m here now, speaking to you. You know I dare.” Per leaned closer to the phone. “Think of the scandal that would cause.”   

“There is no scandal to be caused,” the president said.

“I think there is – in the future. Listen. I want serious consideration of this – in the form of a feasibility study, announced tomorrow, and set in motion within three months.” Per Lakshar allowed a smile to crease his face before he continued, “We have evidence of the children’s existence, and will release the information as to their fate on our website tomorrow if you don’t comply with our – request. On the other hand, we can take that part of the report down if you do comply.”

“OK, the feasibility study. I’ll get someone on it.”

“Oh, and – we’d like our agents back.”

“You can whistle for that!” Langrishe growled.

---

CHAPTER 3 – Awakening

PRESIDENT LANGRISHE SLAMMED DOWN THE PHONE and caught Hardy’s eye as he played the keyboard on his palmtop. “Any luck?”

Hardy shook his head. “Nothing. I’m pretty sure he was using a VPN. There was always a chance he would be, but it was worth a try. Sorry.”

“Well, I’ve set up the press conference,” Langrishe said. “As JSEP are reviving the children, I want you to keep in touch via teleconferencing from now on.”

“I can do that,” Hardy said. “How often should I call?”

“Whenever you have something to report, once the children are all revived and you’ve begun the debrief process.”

Hardy nodded and got up. “I’ll get back to Texas, then…Mr President.”

*

Hardy caught the three p.m. flight back to Texas. He strapped himself into his aisle seat and pulled down the in-flight entertainment centre to discover how much news he’d missed. The pop-up holotank filled up with a newsreader’s image. Hardy listened as he turned to the coffee and sandwich the steward brought him.

At four pm sharp, President Langrishe’s news conference began. His announcement was smooth, slick, and to the point.

“Citizens of the world, an alien ship that drifted into our solar system has been salvaged by JSEP staff, who have checked it over. They rescued a number of alien children from the derelict vessel. We have begun to revive them from a sleep-like state. We wish to do right by them, but only when they are functional can we formulate a coherent policy. However, the situation is under control, and we will not allow any threat to terrorise our planet or its inhabitants.

“We do not know where these children came from, or where their parents are, but we intend to treat them as we would our own children. There will be further announcements as we learn more about them, and our policy towards them evolves.” He turned and nodded at the reporters. “That’s all. No questions. There will be further announcements when we have something to tell you.”

The news channel switched to other topics. Not so much a news conference as a press statement, Hardy thought. Good old Langrishe, keep a tight rein on the information you give out. It gives you the illusion of being in control – though other people don’t always see it that way.

*

Eisenhower Reception Centre, Texas, 19^th September, 2094.

The first thing Ayar noticed as he opened his eyes was the blur of brilliant colours around him. The shock made him shut them at once.

He lay still for several thousandths as his heart thumped with fear. He reasoned that something must have happened during the Long Sleep. And I haven’t woken up properly yet. He’d expected to see the white background of the Sleep Room with its machines and black fittings, and his father bent over him.

He opened his eyes again. The colours were still there. Still blinding.

And his father still wasn’t there.

He panicked then, because something was very wrong. But being the latest child to approach adulthood on the Bekel, pride silenced him. So he pushed himself up on his elbow. But before he could roll onto his side and sit up, his blurred vision showed him the impression of someone nearby.

His vision crystallised into clarity, and the “someone” resolved into two figures that hurried closer. His eyes focused normally now, though the daylight in the room had knocked out his heat vision. For a thousandth he thought they were Declainians, from their pale skins and features; but when one took his arm and pressed him back against the pillow, he saw that wasn’t so. He allowed the one who had touched him to cover him again, and listened to its speech. Its voice soothed him.

Questions beat in his brain. Where am I? Who are these aliens? And where are my parents? But until he could communicate with them he’d get no answers. He raised his hand to his throat and activated his translator. It would assimilate the new language in a few thousandths, and then he’d be able to understand this person’s speech, and reply.

While he waited, Ayar scrutinized the aliens. One was a head taller than the other, but both were shorter than the average for his kind. Their skins were light, and hair covered their whole scalps. That’s why I thought they might be Declainians.

Ayar thought the one who had spoken to him was female, from voice and body size. Her hair was pale brown, with deep yellow streaks on the upper layers, her eyes a warm golden brown. Her skin was flecked with little golden speckles.

He assumed the other person was a man because their body shape and size, and voice pitch, differed from the female’s. His hair was silver-yellow, his eyes so pale a blue as to appear colourless. Ayar noticed that the eyes of both woman and man were narrow and elongated, unlike those of his people.

He was in a bed, and efforts had been made to keep him comfortable. He was almost naked under the cover, but he felt something on each arm, and brought them out to examine. A neat medical dressing adorned each. The skin was sore under the dressings, and his arms were bruised. And Ayar had never had stiff limbs after the Long Sleep before. “Zechmad kaparr-kad?” he asked in surprise.

The translator unit at his throat followed with, “Are my arms injured?”

The woman looked as surprised as he felt. “The cannulas –” she began, and the translator formed words that made sense. Like many tongues he’d encountered, the translation mixed hard and soft phonemes. It sounds so wrong!

But then she spoke again. “You must have been unconscious a long time for the punctures to become so ulcerated.”

Ayar stared at her. “They’re ulcerated?”

She nodded, indicated herself with one hand, and added, “I am Doctor Edith Chapaire. We have given you an antibiotic that should be safe for you – it should help.”

The translator gave “Doctor” the meaning in Zarduthi of Kadak. A healer, then.

Kadak Chapaire ushered forwards the man, who hovered behind her. Ayar noticed a semi-circular scar under his left eye. “This is Hardy Brencher. He wants to talk to you – if you feel ready. Do you have a name?”

Ayar stared, blinked, then relaxed. “I’m Ayar Dekkutz, the eldest child.” His throat felt dry. “Can I have a drink?”

“Can you drink water?”

“Yes.”

Edith Chapaire brought him a glassful. “Take it slowly,” she warned. “We will try you with some food soon, if you are hungry. Can you talk to Monsieur Brencher first?”

The translator informed him that Monsieur was equivalent to Zarz in Zarduthi. An honorific, then. “Yes,” Ayar said between sips. “What about?”

Zarz Brencher spoke as Dr Chapaire slipped away. “The ship,” he said. He waved a hand at the rest of the room. “The other children.”

“What do you want to know about us?”

Miril was asleep in the bed next to his, as they had been in the Sleep Room. He listened to their speech. Words tumbled out of their mouths, though each used different inflections. He noticed Zarz Brencher’s accent differed from Kadak Chapaire’s. Hers was nasal; his had a drawl, similar to the Mergahdi.

Zarz Brencher hesitated for a moment as he pulled up a chair and seated himself beside the bed. “What do your kind call yourselves?”

“We’re Zarduthi. From Zarduth.” Ayar felt a surge of pride as he spoke. “And you?”

“We’re humans. From Earth.” Zarz Brencher pointed at Ayar’s throat translator. “This device. How does it work?”

“It’s connected to my larynx to synthesise my voice when it translates what I say, and to my ears so I hear the translation as you speak. No, don’t touch.” Ayar leant back in alarm as the man leant forwards, hand extended. “It’s sealed to my skin. If you pull on it you could damage my voice.”

“Sorry,” Zarz Brencher said, and let his hand fall. “I’m curious – damage wasn’t my intention.”

 Ayar watched him. He seemed uncomfortable, or perhaps unused to children.

Zars Brencher hesitated. “You said you were a child, but are Zarduthi adults bigger than you? You’re taller than most human adults.”

Ayar grinned. “Height’s usually an advantage for a fighter.”

“You’re a fighter?”

“All our adults are.”

“You aren’t adult yet?”

“I –” Confused, Ayar stared down the bed at the hump his feet made under the cover. It seemed further away, as if he’d grown taller. “I don’t know. Maybe. It feels like we slept much longer this time.” He sighed. “I’ve answered your questions as best I can, and now I think I deserve some information back. Where are my parents?”

“We very much hoped you could tell us that,” Karak Chapaire said.

Ayar stared at her, stricken, for what must have been five thousandths.

“I am so sorry, Ayar,” the woman said at last. “This must be a terrible shock to you.”

And Zarz Brencher regarded him with his near-colourless eyes. “We don’t know where your parents are, Ayar,” he said. “We searched the whole ship. We only found yourself and thirty-two other children onboard.”

*

Hardy Brencher’s office, Eisenhower Reception Centre, Texas, 20^th September 2094.

“President Langrishe will talk to you now,” the holoimage of the receptionist simpered over the video-conference software.

It was a moment before the president came on. “Good afternoon, Brencher,” he said. “What do you have to report?”

Hardy spread his hands. “Nothing more than you already know, Sir,” he said. “The eldest child is Ayar Dekkutz. He has co-operated. I’ve talked to each of them now they’ve all come round, but most have even less idea of where their parents are than Ayar does.”

“But there are parents?” the President asked. “Somewhere?”

“Oh yes. I gather that these people are space mercenaries. The parents are away fighting someone else’s war. But the children don’t know where, other than that they call the people there ‘Declainians’.”

“Hmm.” The President stared into space for a few moments. He roused himself to ask, “So, what’s your assessment of the threat that these children represent?”

“I don’t know that they represent any threat, Sir,” Hardy said. “They’re just bewildered kids. At the moment, the dead alien’s species may be more dangerous to us.”

“Have you seen it?”

“I saw the holo.” Hardy grimaced.

“You didn’t mention it to the children?”

“Of course not!” Hardy watched the President’s holoimage through narrowed eyes. “Besides, they’re still in shock about their parents.”

“Good. Don’t.” The President reached for another cigar, his expression contemplative. He unwrapped the cigar and lit it before he answered. “Don’t let anything come out about it anywhere. If the public find out, the children will, too. Just bury the whole thing. JSEP will continue to investigate it, of course.”

“Yes, sir.” Which means, Hardy thought, the children will never know what happened on their ship.

*

It was rare that Edith sat and watched HV, though it was always on in her office. But the White House had just announced a second press conference that morning, and she thought it might have relevance to her responsibility for the revival and care of the children.

JSEP had slapped a news ban on anything to do with the salvaged spaceship. Her orders were that the secret issue was not to be discussed with anyone not directly connected to the children. But they called the press conference in a hurry; perhaps new information has come to light, or le president has changed his mind – again…

Edith settled down to watch, a coffee beside her. The camera zoomed in on the podium outside the White House. President Langrishe stepped up to it to speak. “Citizens of the World, humanity has recently passed its most stringent test: we have learned we are far from alone in the universe.” He paused.

“I note there have been riots since my initial announcement of the existence of a number of alien children rescued from the derelict vessel. This is not acceptable behaviour by human beings in the enlightened age we live in, and we will not tolerate it. Nor will we tolerate any threat against the Earth or its population.

“The children will grow up in human families, as a valued and welcome part of our society. We will treat them as part of the extended family of humankind – similar to a student exchange visit, but via formal fostering.

“We don’t know where they came from, but we want them to understand our society. They will be educated alongside human children. In their parents’ absence, it’s the best we can do for them.” He turned and nodded at the reporters nearby. “That’s all. No questions. Further announcements as appropriate.” And President Langrishe turned and left the podium.

Edith checked her e-mails, shaken. She found new orders, opened and read them. I should call a meeting, she thought. She scanned the orders again. There was a list of placements with the names of the children included. At the bottom was a section about the children’s care once they left the Reception Centre. It requested recommendations for the post of Social Worker.

A picture flashed into her mind: a young social worker she’d met on assignment in Paris five years before.

She typed a reply.

*

An hour later.

“Play back answerphone messages.” The Reception Centre number was ex-directory, so any calls must be from a member of staff.

Hardy Brencher’s voicemail confirmed that. “Dr Chapaire, I’m here at the White House again today to deal with a security nightmare. I may be back tomorrow.” He rang off.

But what Edith had heard from the White House had disquieted her. She would have to explain it to her team. A frown connected her brows as she scrawled on her message board, “Meeting, 11 a.m., my office – Edith.” She checked the time by the wall clock. Ten minutes to go.

She went to the dormitory and surveyed the room from the door. She matched faces to names on the print-out of the list she held in her hand. She watched as Ben, Zanaida and Yin Leng padded from bed to bed, checked monitoring equipment, arranged physio sessions, and administered or adjusted medications. Sometimes they’d smooth a hand across a forehead, or stop to talk. They all had their favourites; that was natural. Edith’s eyes lingered on Miril Gharm, the youngest. He was asleep again.

She walked over to his bedside and looked down at him for a moment. In the past two weeks he’d woken only for food and the toilet. All the younger children slept a lot; she was sure the huge doses of anaesthetic all of them had received were the cause of their sleepiness; the older children, with their greater body weight, were more alert.

Edith saw Ayar Dekkutz regard her from the bed next to Miril’s. On his other side, Miril’s sister Davan watched her too. Edith smiled. “Do you need anything?”

“Thank you, no,” Ayar said. “Is Zarz Brencher talking to us today?”

“You can relax today! He can not come in.”

“What do you suppose this is about?” Edith heard Ben ask Lin Yeng. She could only hear the thread of sound that was Yin Leng’s voice, not her reply.

She pursed her lips and turned away. At least Monsieur Brencher will not be in today. Even the children know something is up. She pushed open the door to her office.

What it lacked in size it made up for in comfort and facilities. Sofas lined two of the walls. She filled up and set the coffee machine to work, checked that the alarm to the reception ward worked, and sat down to prepare for the meeting.

Minutes later, Yin Leng, one of the nurses, and Ben, the physiotherapist, entered.

“Zanaida’s just coming,” Ben said. “She answered a call from Halka.”

“There is coffee in the pot,” Edith told them, with a wave of the hand to indicate that they should help themselves. “Make one for Zanaida too.” Her mug was already empty. She perched against the desk on one leg, notes in hand. “So,” she began. “I have just received an e-mail from Monsieur Langrishe, le Président. We have had the most important team assignment ever, to look after these children; and how well we do our job now may make all the difference to how our two species interact in the future.” She gestured with the printout and sighed. “But I am not sure that Monsieur Langrishe has his head attached right.”

“Why, what has the president decided?” asked Ben.

Just then Zanaida joined them. She carried the call monitor in case the children needed anything. She smiled at everyone as she sat down and accepted the mug Ben passed her.

Edith noted his frown and matched it with one of her own. She sighed. “The children will be split up.”

“What?” This time it was Yin Leng who spoke. “But that would be cruel. They’ve grown up together.”

“I know. Blast President Langrishe! Paranoia has turned his head.” But it would be even worse if we were still a conglomeration of states and not a world republic. We would never get a decision out of anyone at all –

“Has President Langrishe said why he wants to separate them?” Ben asked.

“Or where they’ll go?” Yin Leng asked.

“Or when?” Zanaida sipped her coffee. “Seems like I’ve just found one job and I’ll need to look for another!”

“This is since M’sieur Brencher discovered the Zarduthi are space mercenaries.” Edith had worked hard to win her team’s trust, and they had all worked hard to win the children’s. The team and the children were her responsibility, and she felt the new orders would let the children down, not to mention her team. But it is something I have no control over. Miril and Davan will be devastated if they can never see each other again, she thought. And they are not the only siblings in the group.

She inhaled and released the air in a gust. “The president is afraid, I think,” she told her staff. “Monsieur Brencher mentioned a threat assessment meeting, and because the children are an unknown quantity, the decision of the president seems to be a prophylactic one. They do not know what the effect of keeping the children here as a group will be, yet they will not take the risk. President Langrishe wants each child fostered with a human family in a different country. He said they have selected families of JSEP staff, for security reasons. I have a list here.” She shrugged. “I am so sorry. I was under the impression we would care for the children as they grew up. But these are my orders, and I have to follow them.”

“But how will you know whether or not the children are all right, if they’re scattered around the world?” Zanaida asked.

“JSEP will employ an experienced social worker to liaise with the children, the families and me, who will join us before the children are placed,” Edith replied.

Ben got up and refilled his mug.“Of course,” he said, “if the kids go to the homes of JSEP staff, Langrishe can keep an eye on them by proxy.”

“That occurred to me too,” Edith agreed. “There is also this: their DNA is too different from ours for them to breed, except with their own kind. To keep them apart is a way to control their population.”

“Is it even ethical to subject them to our laws?” Yin Leng asked. “In my country we imposed strict birth control rules long before the Worldwide Declaration, but it was difficult to enforce, led to social problems, and eventually the government revoked the policy. That made the megafamine worse in China, since some people had larger families again.”

“I guess it depends on whether they’ll live on Earth or not,” Ben said. “If they will, you can see some of the logic behind the decision, but…” He shook his head. “They may not want to stay here.”

“Well, where would they go? And how? They are just children. Even Ayar is a child in many ways, despite his height,” Zanaida said. “Surely they’re no threat to anyone?”

“We’re getting to know them now,” Ben murmured, “and I don’t think they’ll like being split up.”

“It is worse than that.” Edith sighed. “Monsieur Langrishe says he does not want them to meet or communicate at all.”

There was silence for several seconds as Ben, Zanaida and Yin Leng looked at her and each other.

“But that’ll destroy them,” Ben said at last. “We don’t know how much of their natural development they’ve missed out on – or how quickly Zarduthi children develop compared to human kids – and we won’t know unless the investigators on the ship find that out. But we know from our observations of them that they learn as a unit, so unless they can catch up with what they’ve lost – as a unit – they may never make it up.”

“I told the President that,” Edith nodded. “But he told me he had made the decision in the best interests of humanity.” She shrugged. “I told him it was not in the best interests of the children, but who am I to argue with Monsieur le Président? I am only the paediatrician employed by JSEP to look after the children.”

---

CHAPTER 4 – Data Thief

Reception Centre, Texas, 23rd September 2094.

ZANAIDA ALAM PUSHED HER MEMORY DRIVE into the port, and opened up the Recent files. Good job Edith’s at that conference today, she thought, though I suppose it doesn’t matter, now that I’m leaving at the end of the week. She brushed the dust on the desk away with a latex-gloved finger. Edith’s a sloppy housekeeper.  She shrugged.

She repositioned the monitor to read better, and scanned the files that appeared in the monitor’s projection tank. Some were e-mails, but there were other communications. A new folder opened up with the scan and examination results of the children. One very recent e-mail bore the JSEP watermark.

That’ll be it, she thought. She closed the others and concentrated on it. She flexed her hands within the gloves, and a sense of invincibility coursed through her veins.

The header line above the address list read ‘Foster placements’. A list of addresses in a table followed, with names beside it – the names of the children and their placement families. I’ve struck gold!

She read the instructions that came with it: the children were not to meet or communicate, and as they became adults, breeding between them would be unacceptable, since this would cause anger amongst the religions forced to submit to the Population Laws. Girls in countries where marriages were still arranged would be wed to local people. No child could travel to a country where another child from the alien ship lived, or serve in JSEP or the armed forces of any country.

That’s so unfair! Zanaida felt anger on the children’s behalf. She supposed Hardy Brencher would say that President Langrishe had made these rules to protect the people of Earth. But they’re just a bunch of bewildered kids. They won’t cause trouble.

She copied the relevant table to her memory drive, closed the files down, and turned off the computer. Then she left the room, and returned the master key to it to its usual place.

*

24^th September 2094.

Edith Chapaire breezed into her office, poured herself coffee, then pulled her chair out and seated herself. I’d better update Ayar’s file. But as she leant forwards to speak into her monitor’s microphone, she noticed the monitor was set further back and at an angle that made it hard for her to read the screen. That is very strange, she told herself. The monitor was closer, and not tilted like that.

Edith pushed herself away from the desk for a moment and stared at it. Perhaps Phyllis has been in here again, she thought, “tidying” my desk. She’d had to ask her cleaner not to clean this office, once she’d understood how secret her latest JSEP assignment was. But no, there is a layer of dust – apart from here at the front – that I meant to clean up, and it looks as if someone has run their finger over it.

She drank her coffee, regarded the desk, and mulled over her options. Well, that is how our dear Monsieur Brencher can earn his keep. I am certain he keeps watch on me and my team members, so now he can make himself useful when he returns this afternoon.

Coffee downed, Edith got up and went in search of him.

*

Moscow, safe house, same day.

Per Lakshar leaned over the plans on the table in front of him. “Are you sure this is where they’ll have taken her, Grigori?”

“Definitely.” Grigori’s voice was the most memorable thing about him – more of a growl than a voice – and it didn’t suit his mild and insignificant appearance. “I wasn’t in their security forces for fourteen years for nothing!” His lopsided smile faded as quickly as it had arrived.

Per shrugged. “I stand corrected!” He permitted himself an ironic smile as he sat back in his chair and studied his second-in-command. Thin, hair the colour of mouse fur, with grey eyes and indeterminate features, he wore a grey suit. It fitted well enough not to draw attention to him in the street. His bootlace tie was darker grey, his shirt snow-white. He looked for all the world like a businessman.

Per Lakshar compared his appearance to Grigori’s. His dark, monkish robes drew attention wherever he went. But that’s the difference between us – and how we function. I need to draw people to my cause, but for Grigori a high public profile would mean he couldn’t do what he does best. And function extremely efficiently he had; without him there wouldn’t be the network of safe houses or the growing stores of munitions… Yes, an asset to the group.

“And what about our other agents on Galatea Station? Several were captured the other week – would they be with Barbara?”

“Possibly for a while. They’ll most likely be transferred back here for interrogation. We can deal with them when they return to Earth.”

“Well, then,” Per said. “We’d better rescue Barbara.”

“And not take too long about it,” Grigori agreed. “She has more important secrets to spill than the others.”

*

2.30 p.m.

Hardy Brencher strode down the corridor from his office to Dr Chapaire’s, and rapped on the door. Through the vision panel he saw her get up to open the door.

“Ah, Monsieur Brencher,” she said, “thank you for coming. Coffee?”

Hardy was about to shake his head until he noticed the trendy-looking coffee machine that looked as if it could deliver any type of coffee. “Please,” he said. “Does this make cappuccino?”

“It does indeed.” Dr Chapaire pressed a button on the machine and turned back to Hardy. “It will take a minute or two.”

Hardy gestured with her note, which he held in his hand. He lowered his voice. “I gather you’re concerned about a potential spy in our fold.”

“Yes.” Edith explained about her monitor’s different position, and the fact that she’d already stopped Phyllis from cleaning her office. “I don’t know who it could be.”

“Do you keep your office locked?”

“Yes, of course. But there’s a Master key, which I leave here when I go home, for the night staff. Ben and Yin Leng take turns. I have worked with them before.”

That’s not good security, Hardy thought, though if the children go out on their placements there won’t be any night staff here to worry about. “Who else uses the master key?”

“I have my own key – but Josie Carter will share the office with me, and will have her own key.” Dr Chapaire retrieved a china mug of coffee, complete with chocolate sprinkles on top of the milk froth, and handed it to Hardy.

“Impressive,” he said. “Thank you very much!”

“Thank you, enjoy,” Dr Chapaire said. “This is my computer, just as I found it. I do not change the position, because I can see well where I have it. See the dust?” She showed him the outline of the dust where she usually kept the computer positioned, and the finger-wipe mark.

Hardy took a photo of it.

“I haven’t had much time to clean up since we revived the children. And when I went into the files, I discovered that someone has looked at the placement list for the children.”

“How did you work that out?”

“You know how the modification date changes when you open a file?” Dr Chapaire asked. “I received the e-mail two days ago. I was not here yesterday – the date it now shows. I was at a JSEP conference in Washington.”

“OK, of course – I have an office there too – I was there yesterday. That does seem odd,” Hardy said. I wonder if the Neoluddites have a mole in the department to target the children. “Does it show a time as well as the date?”

“Yes, 10.36 a.m.”

“OK – that’s helpful. You mentioned a new member of staff –”

“Josie Carter, yes, but I worked with her in Paris five years ago, and besides, she’s due to arrive this morning.” Dr Chapaire turned, a hand rubbing her pointed chin. “There is also Zanaida Alam, another nurse, but she does not work nights. I have not worked with her before.”

“There are a couple of things I can do,” Hardy said. “Leave it with me.” He turned as there was a knock on the door. “Oh, and don’t clean or touch the desk or the computer until after I’ve come back with fingerprint powder. I won’t be long.”

Dr Chapaire nodded and looked over at the door. “That will be Mademoiselle Carter,” she said. “Excuse me.”

Hardy stood back so she could open the door.

A woman in her late twenties stood there.

“Ah, Josie, it is so good to see you!”

“It’s great to see you, Edith. Many thanks for your recommendation.” The two women embraced.

Ms Carter’s arrival rules her out, Hardy thought.

“Forgive me, Josie, this is Monsieur Brencher, our security chief on this project.” She indicated Hardy with her hand.

Hardy took Josie’s hand and shook it. It gave him a moment to appraise Josie. She was of average height, with fair hair and an ‘English rose’ colouring. She even smelled of roses. He drew in a lungful of the scent. Her skin was flawless and her blue eyes smiled like the sky on a sunny day. She wore a royal blue skirt suit with a lavender blouse, ruffled at the neck. “Delighted to meet you,” he murmured. “What will your role be?”

“I’m the new social worker,” Josie said. “I’ll visit placements to ensure the children settle into their foster homes well, and deal with any problems that arise.”

“Fantastic!” Hardy said. “Well, I look forwards to working with you, and assisting with any security problems. I’d better get on, but it’s great to meet you.” He raised a hand towards Dr Chapaire in a half-serious salute, reminded her not to use the computer or touch anything for the moment, and left.

He hurried back to his office, collected some equipment, and returned to Dr Chapaire’s office. When she let him back in, he laid out the equipment beside the computer.

The women were intrigued to see what he was doing.

“Standard procedures,” he shrugged. He put on latex gloves to dust the area in front of the computer with dark powder that would show up on the blond wood. He wasn’t sure if he could get a viable imprint from the workstation, but he cut a strip of sticky tape, laid it on top of the mark, lifted it off, and placed the tape in a sample bag for further tests.

“What about the master key, Monsieur Brencher?”

“If several people use it on a regular basis it will be difficult to get any information from it,” Hardy replied. “Smooth surfaces provide more information. Though I can try, if you wish. I’ll take it with me.”

Dr Chapaire nodded.

Now for the computer. He dusted the keys with talc and repeated the procedure. Finally he turned to Dr Chapaire. “I’m so sorry, but I need your fingerprints to eliminate you from the inquiry.”

“Of course you do – I am the only user of this computer,” Dr Chapaire agreed.

“Do you mind if I check the fingerprint mark against yours on file?” He’d expected protest, but she co-operated.

When he was finished, she asked, “Am I able to use my computer now?”

“If you have a spare keyboard, I could take this one with me and run some more tests on it. Otherwise, yes.”

“I have something I could use,” Dr Chapaire said. “It is just…I am concerned that the children’s placements could be unsafe.”

 “Me too,” Hardy pointed out. “The president’s idea to separate them is a major security headache for me – that’s what I meant about a security nightmare! But you did the right thing to keep them safe. I promise I’ll let you have the keyboard back ASAP, though it may be a while. But you’ll be good to go once the powder’s wiped up – it would stain that nice light blouse –”

“I will do some housekeeping, Monsieur Brencher.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the key with me, but I can’t promise anything.” Hardy Brencher strode back to his office, deep in thought. The old bird has great taste in coffee machines, at any rate! Might have to get one of those…and her friends aren’t bad either!

*

As he’d thought, any fingerprints on the key were partial and degraded. Hardy wrapped the computer keyboard for analysis by JSEP Security forensic analysts, despatched it and the samples, then turned to his computer monitor for CCTV footage of Dr Chapaire’s office from the previous day. It was helpful that Edith had noted the time of modification. It narrowed down the time he’d need to spend looking through the footage.

He was keen to prove himself useful. The president’s choice comments about him and his team had stung, he admitted to himself, and praise from a fellow worker – especially one who didn’t approve of him – would be balm to his injured pride. From the social worker, whom he barely knew, it would be even better… He thought he’d detected a flicker of interest in her eyes when they met – and a glimmer of disapproval from Dr Chapaire.

He made himself more coffee and settled down to watch the material. He’d peppered the Reception Centre with CCTV cameras on his arrival at the start of this project, so he could keep tabs on what went on here even from Washington, where JSEP had inherited the offices of its predecessor NASA.

He ran the footage forwards at speed until he reached 10.15 a.m. From that point on, he watched it normally, and with full attention.

Soon he saw a woman enter the room and sit at the computer. He’d seen her around the Reception Centre. Hardy checked the time on the footage. It was exactly 10.36 a.m. She inserted a memory drive into the slot, adjusted the position of the computer, wiped a finger over the dust on the desk, pulled up a file, and copied it. Then she closed down the computer and left with the memory drive in her pocket.

Hardy isolated the footage and saved it on a memory drive, then checked the JSEP personnel files to identify her. When Zanaida Alam’s face popped up in his monitor’s projection tank, he recognised her as the woman in the footage. She worked for Dr Chapaire.

He was about to leave for Dr Chapaire’s office when an MMS from Don Harris arrived. He quickly checked it. The code between them changed each day; today’s success message was a holovid of Gordon’s dog. It even barked at him. Code for a fantastic mission!

He put his phone away and strode back down the corridor to Dr Chapaire’s office and knocked at the door. When she opened it, he said, “You did mention a female nurse called Zanaida Alam, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Dr Chapaire said, “and the funny thing is, she has not come in this morning.” She invited Hardy in. “That was quick, identifying her fingerprints –”

Hardy shook his head. “I found her on the security footage, at the time you mentioned, and identified her from JSEP files. But I’ve sent the prints and your keyboard off to Forensic Analysis. We won’t hear back yet, though I got a partial print from your desk. Sometimes the print can bleed through the latex if the suspect has a lot of grease on their hands. She may have worn hand cream or something. Gloves don’t always do what people think they will. It seems Zanaida is our Neoluddite mole, from the print on the desk. It’s also suspicious that she hasn’t come in today. I need to apprehend Ms Alam. Did she leave you a message?”

“No, no message,” Dr Chapaire said. “But I have her address.” She handed it to Hardy.

“Thank you.” He pocketed the sticky note. “In the meantime, can you put your head together with Josie about these placements, because if Zanaida passes on the list of them, anyone could target the children at their foster homes or at school, sports clubs, activity clubs – anywhere. I’ll get back to you when I’ve found her, but I’ll need to report this to President Langrishe. Oh, and by the way, here’s your master key back – I couldn’t get anything off it.”

*

 Hardy’s office, later that day.

“We should change all of these placements,” Hardy said. “Zanaida’s actions have put all the children at risk.”

“I take it she’s in custody now?” President Langrishe asked, as he lit another cigar.

“Of course. That’s why I’m teleconferencing with you – she was a flight risk. But we can’t know in advance – without inside intel – where the Neoluddites might strike.”

“If that’s even what they’re up to. We might be able to change some placements,” Langrishe said, “but some aren’t negotiable.”

“Well, why?”

“Because those placements are with essential JSEP personnel and their families, such as the engineer copying the drive –”

“Oh, so this is what all this security nightmare is really about!” Hardy observed. “Is it really necessary to spy on the kids? Couldn’t you just ask them what you want to know straight out?”

President Langrishe frowned. “Coming from you, Brencher, that’s a bit rich, isn’t it?”

*

Zero, same day, ship’s time/date: 406.81.4.82.549 AD (same day).

Omol looked around the shelter, but his mind registered nothing he saw. He planned to explore the sandstone towers they’d spotted on the way down. A preliminary trip had confirmed their potential value as a permanent place of shelter; they’d weathered sandstorms and stood for millenia. Some contained cave-like cavities, probably created by the action of the constant winds.

Tangar spoke in the soft language. “You look like you could do with a breather, Omol. Why not go for a walk? I can despatch the exploration crew.”

Omol considered for thousandths. “I could…but I feel guilty if I stop work –”

“Don’t feelguilty!” Tangar smiled and laid his hand on Omol’s shoulder. “Everyone needs a break now and then. A commander who’s worn out, depressed, and won’t make time for his own needs isn’t fit to be in charge. Take a break.”

Omol met his gaze. “Thank you, Tangar,” he said. “For all your understanding and support.”

He stepped out into the twilight of day. His pace quickened now that he’d decided to take that break. Where to go? He spotted the spring in the distance. The cold beat at his skin and eyes as he trudged towards the topographical low where water bubbled to the surface.

A sandcreeper scuttled past, startled at his approach. The movement brought him out of his reverie. Another chance might not come for some time. He reached for his pistol, aimed and fired by reflex. The projectile hit true. One of its legs flew up and somersaulted in the air. He dashed after the creature, and realised he felt better. Action’s always good for me.

As he arrived the sandcreeper tried to raise itself on legs that no longer functioned. He clonked it on the part that contained its brain with his projectile pistol. It ceased to move, and he picked it up and tucked it under his arm. The chirrup of a sandhopper distracted him, and he captured that in his hand. A snack for one of the children, he thought, and tucked it into his pocket. He turned to continue his walk when he noticed a green flash against the sand ahead.

Omol hurried towards the spring. Its underlying geology had tinted the sand with lilac, deep red, buff, pale yellow, ochre, blue and deep pink, but the colours were altered by the dim light. They reflected the colours of the sandstone towers, another exposure of the same geology.

But there beside the tinted dunes, a familiar and ominous shoot had risen from the sand as if he’d never blasted the Thirsty trees with his disruptor. The skies might as well have filled with stormclouds wracked by thunder and lightning. Omol’s mood evaporated, replaced by a sense of despair and impotence. What’s left of my clan will survive – I will make sure of that. I brought them here, and it’s my responsibility. He knelt down, laid the sandcreeper on the ground beside him, and holstered the pistol.

His talons sliced the sand easily. When he found what he sought his fingers were dry and gritty. There! The root’s exposed. What he saw gave him no hope. The roots snaked across the hole, and from them green shoots erupted in many places.

It spreads by runners. By trying to destroy the Thirsty trees I made even more of them.

*

The Lawtons’ apartment, Richmond, England, 26^th September 2094.

Chas Lawton leaned back in his chair and smiled into the holocam. “Hi Steph!”

Steph smiled him a welcome. “Good to talk to you, Chas. It’s Tuesday you come home, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m looking forwards to it. And I’ve got a special surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes.” Chas hesitated. Although the selection hadn’t been his doing, he’d seen its advantages at once. “You remember how you said you wished we could have a child together?”

Steph sighed. “That’s impossible, Chas, and you know it.”

“Not necessarily…did you see the press release about the alien space vessel? The one the mining survey mission found in orbit around Titan.”

“Yes,” she said, “It was on Newsround the other day. I wondered if you knew anything about it. Something about some children found on board. But what’s that got to do with –”

“We’ve been selected,” Chas told her. “They want us to foster one of the children.”

“What?” The colour had drained from Steph’s face. “But why us?”

“Because I was one of the contact team.” Chas felt the smile evaporate from his lips. “I actually found them.” He waited as she gathered her thoughts, then added, “I thought you’d be pleased.”

Steph stared at him. “You’re making this up!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got some woman up there –”

“I’d never do that to you, Steph. I’d never lie to you. I know how that hurts.” Chas’ mouth tightened as he remembered how his previous marriage had ended. “Anyway,” he added, “I was the first to see them, and there’s no way these children are human. Humanoid, yes, but when you see him, you’ll realise it’s the truth.”

“Him?”

“Yes. We don’t know his exact age, but he’s young.” Steph didn’t respond, so Chas thought she expected him to say something else. “He’s weak from sleeping for a long time in microgravity, so he needs physio. That’s another reason why we were chosen – because of your training and experience. I knew you wanted another child,” he added, “so I thought this was a way…” He let his voice trail off.

“It’s all rather sudden!”

Chas thought back to the night his ex-wife had told him that Flora was on the way. “It always is – and even more so with JSEP, it seems!”

“Well – do we have a choice? Because I wonder what Ronnie will have to say about it,” Steph said.

“No. It was a last-minute decision – they had some security issue with the original placement.”

“Hmm. Well, I need to think about this seriously till you get back here, ‘cos it’s rather a shock!”

*

Next day.

Steph sipped her coffee and checked her watch again. Chas said the jet would be here by now, she thought. She wondered whether she should believe him about the child; he couldn’t even show her a holo of him – for security reasons, he’d said.

I can’t help being suspicious. She tried to squash the feelings the call had revived in her. Darryl was such a pig to me – I hope Ronnie hasn’t inherited any of his characteristics! That he might have caused her occasional worry.

The old-fashioned brass knocker echoed through the apartment. Steph uncoiled her legs from the armchair and went to answer it. A uniformed stranger stood there. It took her a moment to realise his jacket bore the JSEP insignia, though she’d seen Chas in his uniform often enough.

“Has something happened to Chas?” she asked.

The man smiled. “No, no, Ma’am. He’s here. I’m just the escort. You’re a lucky lady.”

“Am I?” Steph saw Chas emerge from the lift opposite, and smiled with relief.

As he approached he beamed his pleasure at the sight of her. “Hi, Steph!” he called, hurried to her side, and flung his free arm around her.

Steph saw the figure in his arms, swathed in a blanket.

“I’ll go, if you don’t mind,” the escort said. “I have to get back to the States, and the jet won’t wait forever.”

“Of course,” Steph said.

“Ma’am, Chas.” The man nodded to her and headed for the lift.

“Is this the new addition to the family?” She looked up at him and tried to harden her heart against the child, but couldn’t squash down her curiosity. All she could see of him was a brown-purple blur.

Chas nodded. “We’ve got Miril on a trial during my leave.” Because Chas worked a job share, like many JSEP employees, he got plenty of leave; he was now in Britain for three months. “They promised they’ll try to find him another placement if it doesn’t work out.”

“I’m just not sure how Ronnie will react,” Steph said. “He’s been king pin, and although he seemed excited when I told him, he –” She bit her lip. “Let me see him.”

Chas pulled the blankets back.

Steph’s first impression was not favourable. For a child, the creature looked a lot like an old man; he reminded her of famine victim pictures on HV, on the most overcrowded continents worst-affected by climate change. “He doesn’t look too well,” she observed.

“No. Some younger children have taken a while to adapt back to solid food after intravenous feeding for however long, but that’s now stabilised. Er – how long do you plan to keep us standing here?” Chas grinned and sought her wrist and moved his thumb over her skin. It was his way of wheedling.

Steph stood back for him to enter.

The child stirred in his arms, perhaps disturbed by their voices, perhaps by Chas walking, or perhaps by their voices. He opened round, dark eyes and stared around for a moment, then drifted back into sleep.

“Well?” asked Chas. His eyes were on her. “Shall we give him a try?”

Steph watched his face as she considered. He’s my best friend, as well as my lover and husband. I should have known better than to doubt him. She smiled. “Yes. We’ll give him a try,” she answered.

Chas laid the child on the sofa in the lounge. His red shorts and yellow t-shirt did nothing to disguise the stick-thin limbs. His flesh hung on his bones like wrinkled clothing. Just then he stirred, sighed, yawned, and blinked twice, then fixed a stare on both of them.

“Hello, Miril,” Steph said, and smiled at him. He lay on the couch and watched her. Poor kid, he’s too weak to move, she thought.

“Miril,” he said. He pronounced it with a hard r. More guttural sounds followed, then a sentence in English: “My name is Miril.” The translation was in his childish voice.

Steph looked at Chas in surprise.

“They have these translator-things wired in,” he said with a shrug. “But I assume he’ll eventually learn to speak English anyway.”

Then she caught sight of the flat disc of silvery-grey metal embedded in the skin of his throat. There was a stud on the side of it. She leant closer.

Chas caught her arm and pulled her back. “He gets worried if he thinks someone’s going to touch it,” he said.

Steph nodded and turned back to the child. “Miril.” She couldn’t say it as he did. Just one sound’s difference, yet it didn’t sound the same at all! “Miril.” It still wasn’t right. She smiled at him again and pointed to her husband. “Chas.” Then she indicated herself. “Steph.” She elongated the syllables for him, and when he repeated the names correctly she beamed at him. “Would you like a drink? Some fruit juice, maybe?”

Miril jerked his head upwards and murmured, “Zooch.” After a pause, the translator echoed in English, “Yes.”

Steph watched him and tried to assess his age. His limbs seemed long for a human child of any age below seven. But he isn’t human, she reminded herself, and perhaps we can’t compare him to a human child. She decided to play safe and use Ronnie’s old trainer cup.

“Here you are,” she said, kneeling beside him. She had to help him sit up; his body felt cooler than hers and fitted awkwardly against her, all long bones and angles.

He looked at the trainer cup, then put out a hand to touch it, but pulled back.

He doesn’t know how to use it, Steph realised. She took the lid off to show him the juice inside, and mimed sucking through the lid.

He soon got the idea. After a couple of tries he gulped the juice.

“Take it more slowly,” she said.

He ignored her.

Perhaps he doesn’t understand. “Okay, good boy. Have the rest in a minute.” She pulled the cup out of his grasp.

Miril tried to reach for it again, but then his eyelids wavered and closed.

“They said he sleeps a lot,” Chas murmured. “Even during the day.”

Steph laid Miril back on the sofa and studied him. Everything about him was in the right place, but his features didn’t look human. His long narrow fingers – other than the thumb – had an extra joint, and the tips tapered into claws. She’d noticed them as he fingered the translator disc. His oval ears protruded from his hairless scalp. The skin was flaky, and along the slight raised crest which ran from his forehead to the base of his skull the hair had fallen out in patches. His eyes were round, and the lids sank back into the sockets when he opened them.

She pulled the blankets up around Miril and sighed. “Just what are we being asked to take on here?” she asked, and turned to face Chas. “You said he needs physio, but what about food? Does he need a special diet?”

Chas shook his head. “Apparently they can eat anything.”

“I can’t understand why they fostered him in this state.”

“President’s orders,” Chas explained.

“So we don’t have any choice?” Steph raised her eyes heavenwards. “I must be mad!”

“Not mad. Just compassionate,” Chas said and hugged her. “And Miril has even less choice than us. Oh, and – he has a sister, but they aren’t allowed to communicate with each other.”

“What? Whose idea was that?” Steph was indignant on Miril’s behalf.

“President’s orders – to do with settling in and security. Allegedly.”

*

“Everything’s ready.” Chas strode into the lounge. “I’ll fetch Ronnie from school, shall I?”

“Sure.” Steph was seated in a chair opposite Miril, so she could watch him as she sipped her coffee.

She can’t take her eyes off him, Chas thought as he watched her, and hugged himself. I think she likes him!

“I must be mad,” Steph repeated. “I don’t know whether to be furious or flattered!”

Chas spared a glance across at Miril. He’d curled himself into a heat-conserving position on his side, arms clasped around his middle, the blanket up about his ears.

“The thing is,” Chas said, “when you’re in the JSEP Marines and the President says ‘Jump!’ you jump!” He wondered at the effect this intruder would have on Ronnie. Still, he told himself, lots of other kids – especially in one-parent families – have to adapt to difficult changes in family life. It’s the way society is these days…though they don’t usually have alien brothers or sisters!

Chas dismissed the thought with a shrug, and went to collect Ronnie. The school was ten minutes’ walk away via the short cut over the stream which meandered between a housing estate and agricultural land. It was an oasis of less-developed countryside, and Chas enjoyed the chance to walk without the restriction of a spacesuit or magnetic-soled boots. He whistled to himself as he crossed the bridge over the stream. In the glasshouses nearby, a robot harvester cut early crops and ignored human activity and presence. Chas saw the school through the trees, and hurried towards it.

When Ronnie saw Chas, he grinned, rushed to him, and flung his arms around his waist.

“We can talk as we walk home,” Chas said.

But they were almost there before Ronnie stopped chattering enough for him to ask what Steph had told him about his new brother.

“Oh. Yes.” Ronnie’s lip quivered; then his features twisted with rage. “I told Mum, I don’t want a brother!” he shrieked.

“Quiet, Ronnie! It’s rude to make a noise in the street. Anyway, you’ll like this brother,” Chas answered. “He’s not quite like other brothers. You’ll still be special, but so is he.”

“How can he be special, if I am?” Ronnie asked, intrigued. “I wouldn’t have minded a sister,” he added.

Chas ignored this barb. His daughter Flora had chosen to live with his ex-wife, and he hadn’t seen either of them for five years. He didn’t enjoy reminders of that void in his life. Perhaps Ronnie didn’t understand the subtle cruelty of his remarks about his desire for a sister; he’d never even met Flora.

Chas lifted Ronnie over the gate to the apartment block. It was a game they played. Chas always walked in, but his father had played similar games with him, so he never deprived Ronnie of this method of entry. “Everybody’s special in their own way,” he answered. “You, me, your mother – and Miril.”

“Mirl – Mil?” Ronnie glared up at Chas. “What kind of a name is that?”

“Miril’s different from you and me and your mum,” Chas replied. “He comes from another world – we’re not sure where yet. Somewhere up there.” He waved at the sky. “I’ve been asked to look after him for a while. It’s –” He hesitated. Then inspiration struck. “It’s part of my job,” he added.

“You mean – you get paid for it?”

For a seven-year-old, Ronnie’s shrewd, Chas thought. “Something like that,” he agreed. That was one thing he’d reassured Steph about. The years of being careful with money as a single parent had spilled over into her life with him, though a JSEP Marine’s salary was more than adequate for the three of them. He’d never quibbled over the acceptance of Ronnie as his own son, but the trust fund meant Steph need have no financial worries about the foster placement.

“Oh well, I suppose I could meet him!” Ronnie sighed. “If we’re getting paid to have him!” He bounded up the path towards the apartments.

Shit! I’m not used to this parenting thing. I spend too much time away from home. I always did. Chas passed a hand across his forehead as he wiggled his shoulders. The hours spent with Miril in his arms in the plane had stiffened his muscles. He placed his palm against the scanner, and the door to the communal area of the apartment block opened.

Ronnie leapt ahead of him into the lift. Chas followed and selected the third level. Ronnie hopped from one foot to the other and overbalanced as the lift moved.

“Ronnie!” Chas said, as they reached their floor.

Ronnie turned.

“When you go in, keep quiet – Miril’s asleep.”

“I don’t want him to sleep!” Ronnie snapped. His voice echoed around the landing. “I want him to play with me –”

Chas clamped a hand over Ronnie’s mouth and let them into the apartment. But before he could hold him back, Ronnie had escaped his grasp and skipped into the lounge.

Chas followed him, and saw Miril turn those almost lidless, round, dark eyes to stare at them.

“MUMMEEEEE!” Ronnie screamed.