Now: Captain Schilling has become very large. Uncomfortably so, especially for others. Deep in his hidden cave in the heart of New Dahomey's purplefan forests, Schilling has literally put down roots, grown braces of bone and tendon to lock him into place and support his weight. His reddened face hangs near the top of his bulk, jaw distended and broadened with his growth so that Schilling's voice is almost incomprehensible. Bogdanov has decades of practice understanding his captain. He stands for a moment in the darkness, listening to sighing bellows of Schilling's great lungs, counting out the shared pulse of their endless lives. "Ladyman came to me this morning," Bogdanov says. His voice echoes, whispers of dozens of mouths from his faceted faces. "Mayor of Port Weiland." Hearing Schilling speak is like listening to a rock face creak. "One of my great-grandchildren." "Yes, him." There had been a brief, happy time when First Crew mingled freely with Colonists, before the changes in First Crew became apparent. "Questioning how First Crew has lived so long. There's talk of burning us as witches." "Like that business down in Dorytown last year." Bogdanov nods. "Exactly." Eleven men and two women had been whipped and burned. All local-born. "Us, that flew between the stars, burned for witches," rumbles Schilling. "Perhaps we should wish for it. And yet here we are. Now and forever." "By Ladyman's lights, we are witches," says Bogdanov. "Ladyman may be ready to finish us. If that will be permitted. None of First Crew have succeeded in dying since Mikhailovna and Thomassen." "You are our Speaker," Schilling says. "Talk to him." "I will tell Mayor Ladyman the truth. Let us see if that can spur him to action." Schilling's piercing blue eyes glitter in the shadows high above, his further opinion given no voice at all except in the pain on his face and the bright spark of his gaze. Then: "Captain Schilling, surface team reports a problem." In his Afrikaner accent, Lieutenant Thomassen's tone was both urgent and soft as he paged through available ground-imaging resources on his workstation. Ife's bridge was ruddy with the low-lux illuminations of tactical operations. The two of them were the only command crew on duty, a dozen other workstations on stand-by. Terminal planetary orbit was a quiet time for the starship. Schilling was unsurprised at Thomassen's report. "One damned thing after another," he said. The one-way colonization mission to New Dahomey had encountered a string of troubles starting long before launch. "What kind of problem this time?" Thomassen sent the appropriate video feed to Schilling's command station. "They don't know." The captain studied his monitor. It displayed an orbital recon image of the shuttle Cotonou in a clearing among feathery purple trees, the crew spread out in a semicircle facing one of those trees. With Ife's onboard camera resolution of thirty centimeters, he could see people but not identify them. "They're being menaced by a purple tree?" Schilling finally asked. "Audio coming to you now, sir," Thomassen said. "...out there in the trees." It sounded like Bogdanov. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. "Crap, it's coming closer." A woman, Schilling wasn't sure whom. The trees' purple feathers swayed on the satellite monitor. "We're over their horizon in forty-seven seconds," said Thomassen. "Expect about six minutes of blackout before our relay sats can pick it up." "Bogdanov, this is Schilling. What is it?" "Captain," Bogdanov gasped. "It's, it's...big. It's a big...thing." "Describe it, Commander. Color, shape, activity. Give us something to work with." "Uh, it's big and tough-looking. And kind of dark. Except for the bright parts. Like a big bug, maybe, with eyes looking right at me-- crap!" Just before the video feed blanked out, Schilling saw the shuttle Cotonou explode. "Permission to launch shuttle Ibadan, sir." Jumping out of his station chair, Thomassen seemed ready to run down to the surface on foot if necessary. "Denied." Schilling studied the last clear video frame, still frozen on his monitor. Flames sheeted from the Cotonou, human figures caught in motion, scattering away from whatever was in the trees. Or maybe toward it. Schilling couldn't tell. "They're stranded, Captain." Thomassen strained for action--Schilling could see it in his stance, hear it in his voice. "They need our help. As soon as possible." Thomassen was so damned young, thought Schilling. Eager for everything in his life to happen at once. "Don't be an idiot, Lieutenant. Whatever blew Cotonou can blow Ibadan just as easily. Then we'd have no shuttle at all." Ife's cargo and passenger modules were configured for ballistic drops, worthless as return vehicles. Even in the dim lights of the bridge, the dark skin of Thomassen's forehead pulsed visibly. "We can't just leave them there." Schilling spun around in his station chair to face Thomassen. "What do you suggest? Ife isn't designed for atmospheric entry. We don't have any heavy weapons outside of a few crated-up mining quasers. Planning to land Ibadan on top of that clump of trees and hope you hit whatever it is?" Thomassen stared at the deck. "No, sir." "Then let's wait until we can pick up their telemetry again, and see what's what." "Captain Schilling." The voice coalesced around them, buzzing from the consoles, the speakers, the lighting, every rigid surface on the bridge, speech crisp and accentless as any ground controller's. Thomassen drew his flechette pistol and crouched, seeking a target. Schilling stood calmly from his station chair, hand on his own holstered pistol. "So much for waiting for telemetry," Schilling said as the bridge lights flickered out. Whooping alarms echoed from the corridors, but the bridge itself quieted, workstation consoles dying one by one. |
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