A Dragon at the Gate (The New Aeneid Cycle Book 3) (26 page)

“Do you want us to touch your head?” Marette asked, pantomiming the same. The being matched her motions.

“Or it wants to touch ours,” Jade whispered.

Michael stood, slowly. “There’s one way to find out, isn’t there?” He took a step toward the being, who turned its focus on him.

Marette touched his shoulder. “
Non
. Let me.” Her gaze was trained on Michael, but she gave a tiny nod to where Felix lay with Caitlin and Jade beside him. “The risk should be mine. And you have other things for which to worry.”

“It’s not a risk,” he answered. Just a few paces away, the being waited on their decision. “At least, it doesn’t feel like it.”

“It does not. Nevertheless.” Marette stepped in front of him and closed the distance to the being.

MARETTE TOOK ANOTHER
step forward. In the chamber outside, Cartwright lay wounded or worse amid a swarm of drones. Kotto lay further out, probably dead. She had lost track of Marc entirely. Of those who had come here under her charge, only Dr. Sheridan remained.

The being’s pupil-less eyes seemed to fixate on Marette as she drew near. It smiled; it felt welcoming. Yet who was to say this creature’s facial expressions corresponded to anything resembling those of humans? She took a breath and then grasped its hand in hers.

The warmth of the being’s hand radiated through the material of Marette’s suit glove. Its thumbs wrapped the back of her hand, firm but not uncomfortably so. She squeezed back with a subtle, single pump. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that she was now quite possibly the first human ever to shake hands with an extra-terrestrial creature.

The pump seemed to startle the being. It tilted its head to one side, then uttered a low warble and seemed to smile again.

Then it reached its free hand toward her face.

Marette leaned her head back on instinct. It hesitated. Their hands remained clasped, and the being had yet to tighten its grip further. It pointed to her forehead, blinking slowly once more, and her muscles relaxed. Why did it want to touch her there?

It could have done so before she would have been able to stop it. It wanted her consent. Despite the terrible things that had happened on
Paragon
—the traps, the ambushes, and the dangers—her gut told her this was safe. Yet hadn’t she felt waves of calm flowing over her since this creature appeared? Did it have the power to trick her moods or circumvent her better judgment?

Marette nodded to the being, who spread its thumbs wide. She awaited the contact and found her eyes closing. She felt the touch at her forehead like warm leather: smooth and soft. Narrow fingers slid upward across her hair as its palm pressed against her bare skin and eyebrows.

At once her stomach shifted, as if she had been swept off her feet into a freefall, though somehow she knew her boots remained flat on the floor. Marette gasped. And then, just as soon as the sensation had overtaken her, it ceased. She felt herself somehow wrapped in a cocoon of safety, supported as she floated in an ocean of green.

What touched her mind then was formed not of words but impressions and impulses operating on the level of raw amorphous thought. It was as though music whispered through her mind, evoking feeling without the precision of lyrics. It came to her; gentle, or just tentative? Cautious? Or was it simply floating at the periphery of her mind in places she was unused to focusing on?

Regardless, it was an indistinct sensation. Marette concentrated on it, trying to turn the alien impressions into coherence. Her head began to ache.

Asking. Requiring. Knowledge within.

Marette imagined her own arms within her mind—was it her mind?—reaching out, trying to grasp . . .

A need.
It wanted communication. The means she held within her?
A language.
Her language.
To learn. To take?

It wanted to enter her mind.
To speak with mouths.
To learn her language. It needed her consent. Yet once she allowed it in, how much of the things she knew—about the AoA, about Earth, about everything—could it read?

Her question, she realized, must have somehow made its way to the being, as the impression she felt next seemed to be an answer:
Only what is allowed.

Will you?
it seemed to be saying.

Marette focused on the idea of spoken words and language, trying to emit her permission.

Inquisitiveness poured through her in a rush, and she staggered. She could feel the being deeper within her now, spreading through her thoughts, overflowing every synapse that held linguistic understanding. It was as if she were falling from the heights, plunging down on a jet of torrid air that slowed her descent so long as she had the strength to hold herself within it. It was terror and exhilaration together at once.

Marette could feel the being gathering what it needed. With that feeling came the certainty that she would be able to tell if it tried to take more than what she offered. Yet could she trust that certainty? Or did she truly have any choice? Whatever this being was, they must learn to communicate with it. Without trust, there could be no progress.

And then, almost as abruptly as it had begun, the sensation withdrew. Again, she found herself floating amid the green, until, moments later, that too faded, and she stood in the room within
Paragon
, face to face with the being before her.

How long had she remained in that state? She could not tell.

“Marette?” It was Dr. Sheridan, somewhere behind her, her voice laced with worry.

Before Marette could answer, the being spoke. She heard its words, she grasped its meaning:
Can you understand me?
She couldn’t help but smile, because . . .

“Vous parlais la francaise,” she answered. [
You are speaking French.
]

“Oui, comme vous, maintenant je le comprends.” [
Yes, as you know it, now I know it.
]

“The others here only speak English. Did you learn English?”

It blinked, and then spoke in English, “Is this to your preference?”

She nodded. “We have a great deal to ask you.”

It held up one hand, as if telling her to wait. “I mean you no harm, unless you bring harm with you. Who are you? What do you want?”

Then it didn’t take knowledge of her identity or purpose during their connection. Probably. “We could ask the same of you.”

“You are aboard our vessel.”

Dr. Sheridan stepped closer from behind. “And many of us have died here,” she said. Marette motioned for her to back up, but did not look to see if she obeyed.

The being frowned.

“My name is Marette,” she tried. “We are from Earth, which is the planet this moon orbits. We found your vessel and are exploring to learn more about you, and communicate. Until now we have only met with hostility. The drones; the—” She pantomimed one with both hands. “Did you send them to attack us?”

The being’s frown deepened. Its slim shoulders sunk. “The sentinel drones are no longer under our control, it does seem. You have my regrets.”

“It does seem?”

“I have only been awake from the long-sleep for,” it paused, perhaps to search for a word, “close to one hour, if I comprehend your time units adequately. Much has passed in the time of my sleep.” It turned both of its palms upward, pressed them together, and then raised them, as if lifting an invisible platter. “I am Alyshur, Second Lailenthi of the
Sillisinuriri
, which is the name of this vessel.”

“Lailenthi?” It was Michael’s flame-haired companion.

“It does not translate well. ‘Caretaker’ would be the closest word in your language.”

“If you’re not controlling these drones,” asked Michael, “then who is?”

“An intruding corruption. A
suuthrien
,
in my language.”

“You—” It was Michael again. “You said Suuthrien?”

Alyshur pumped its head forward and back in a motion that Marette took to be a nod. “One that the first lailenthi could not fully purge from our systems. Now I fear it has you trapped here with us.”

“HOW TRAPPED?”
The question came from the brunette who had arrived with Michael. Given her accent, Marette wondered if this was somehow the woman who had arrived with Michael and Marc on their first visit to the Omicron Complex three months ago. Marette could not recall her last name, but her first was Caitlin.

“We have someone wounded here,” Caitlin continued. “We need to get him to someone who can help, fast.”

Alyshur’s frown returned. “If I remove the barrier, the drones will attack you and endanger you all. I will be unable to stop them.”

“But he’s
dying
.” Caitlin’s voice remained somehow level despite the glare she burned into Alyshur. “Do you understand ‘dying’?”

“Caitlin,” the redhead whispered. “He’s gone already.”

“I understand dying.” It turned to speak a trill of its own language over its shoulder. Another being stepped from concealment beyond the edges of the opening to the larger chamber beyond. This one’s height was shorter than Alyshur’s by a few centimeters, its head slightly wider at the top, and its build subtly stockier. It moved beside Alyshur, returning a few lyrical words of its own, its voice higher. Alyshur gave the newcomer one of its pumping “nods” before the newcomer touched a hand to Alyshur’s forehead. For a few seconds the two stood unmoving. Then they broke contact, and the newcomer turned toward Felix’s body.

“This is Uxil,” Alyshur explained. “She will do what we can for your companion, but our skills are limited.”

She?
Did these beings have actual masculine/feminine genders, or did Alyshur simply feel that was the closest appropriate English word? Marette watched with the others as Uxil knelt beside Felix’s bloodied body. Gender was a topic that could wait.

Uxil brushed her fingertips aside Felix’s temples. “This one is much worse than the other. There may be little I can do.” Had she learned English from that brief contact with Alyshur, as Alyshur—he?—had learned from Marette?

Wait. “What ‘other’?” Marette asked.

Motioning for her to follow, Alyshur tuned and went around the edge of the opening and into the larger room. Marette accepted his invitation and signaled for Dr. Sheridan to join her. Out of sight of the smaller antechamber in which they had been speaking lay Marc. Lightning burns marred his suit and scarred half of his face.

Marette was kneeling beside him before she knew it. His chest barely moved, yet at least he was breathing. She felt for a pulse and found only a distant tremor against her fingertips.

Alyshur stood above her. “This one was injured by a sentinel drone before we brought him here to safety. Uxil has done what she can and believes him to be stable, but we know little of your kind. She could not wake him.”

The drone’s lightning had burned away much of Marc’s hair. His visor remained on. Marette felt the heat from his burns radiating across her fingers as she gingerly removed the visor and set it aside. His eyes were closed. For the moment, unconsciousness might be the most comfortable thing for him.

Marette saw no evidence that his suit had been removed or that any medical treatment had been applied. “What did she do for him?” she asked.

Alyshur hesitated. “A transfer of strength, to soothe the body and fortify the mental hold on the physical.”

“I do not understand,” Marette said. The medical indicators on Marc’s suit were dark and useless, surely shorted out by the drone’s attack. “Will he be alright?”

“We do not know.”

A sob, quickly stifled, came from the antechamber. Caitlin. Moments after, Michael stepped around the corner, one hand white-knuckled against it. The anguish in his eyes said enough: Felix was beyond help. That anguish intensified when he spotted Marc’s body.

“Marc is alive,” Marette assured him. “Stable, they say.”

“For the present,” Alyshur added.

Michael nodded silently and glanced back into the antechamber where his dead friend lay, and then again toward Marc and Alyshur. His feet remained rooted in place, his grip fixed on the corner of the black-coated wall. He seemed to search for words that would not come.

“Suuthrien,” Michael managed finally. “It’s on Earth.”

Alien body language or not, Alyshur appeared just as shaken as Marette. “How do you know this?”

Marette held up a hand to cut off any response before Michael could make it. In her other hand she continued to cradle Marc’s visor. “Many of us have died here on your vessel. We welcome your aid now, but before we share more, you should tell us more about this Suuthrien, if you claim it to be our common enemy.”

Alyshur hesitated. “I will tell you. Yet if you turn this knowledge against us, there will be retaliation.”

That Alyshur had made the threat without anything she recognized as malice somehow set more of a tingle along Marette’s back. “We do not respond well to threats, Alyshur.”

He blinked at her. “I did not threaten. Honest dealings require honest statements of position and forewarning of consequences, do they not?”

Marette exchanged a glance with Michael as Uxil appeared from the smaller section to stand beside him. “That sounds fair,” Marette answered.

Alyshur momentarily bent his knees and spread his arms, as if to indicate the deep, darkened chamber behind him, or perhaps the entirety of
Paragon
. “We began our voyage millennia ago, crossing the void to establish a new outpost—one of many—in hope of survival from a doomed planet. The technology of the Thuur—my people—is rooted in organics, technology born of living cells. The
haldra
—” Here Alyshur motioned to the black material along the nearest wall. “—this membrane that fills the
Sillisinuriri
—is one such technology. The impulses within the membrane—
software
may be your term—controls many of the vessel’s systems and, by virtue of the membrane’s biology, regenerates our breathable atmosphere and fulfills other such functions.”