Alien Nation #1 - The Day of Descent (41 page)

It stood half again as tall as George’s father, upright on two widely spaced and massive legs that curved with an extra joint between knee and ankle. The body that was slung between those legs was the same shape as the viewport, sweeping up past narrow shoulders and arms no larger than a child’s into a neck that writhed and twisted like a living rope and ended in a stump that held only three horizontal slits, constantly whistling open and closed, fluttering like fabric caught in the breeze from an air vent.

George felt Ruhtra’s body shake. He smelled urine.

The creature stopped, then moved swiftly toward the shadows where the two boys hid. Both of its arms worked at the intricate harness it wore. There were implements attached to the harness. Some with blades.

“Nooooo!” Ruhtra cried. “Don’t let it! Don’t let it!”

George pulled back on his brother as the creature lunged at them. The object it now held in its three-fingered, taloned hand glittered with dozens of metal spikes.

“Stangyaaaa!”

The object swung low, slicing through the air, cutting across George’s arm in a spray of pink blood. George gasped but held his position and drew Ruhtra closer to him, placing himself directly between the creature and his brother. And with all the fury his young hearts could give him he screamed:
“Don’t you hurt my brother!”

George still couldn’t remember how long he stood like that. The creature kept its distance, slits fluttering as it drew out and manipulated objects from its harness, pointing some at George, whistling into others. But it never moved closer. And eventually it simply left, shuffling with a powerful gait toward a corridor that led only to the locked-off sectors.

It was the first alien life form George had seen. And in all the years and planets since, he had never seen another like it. Sometimes he wondered if it had been one of Those Who Made the Ships, or one of those whom the Overseers served. But the Elders to whom he finally confessed the encounter could not identify the creature from George’s description, and in time he began to doubt if the incident had happened at all.

The only other thing he remembered from that day was walking back with Ruhtra, keeping to the smaller corridors so others might not see Ruhtra’s soiled tunic. Just before they were to return to their family’s dormitory, Ruhtra had suddenly taken George’s hand.

“When the Overseers take you,” the child had said, “who will protect me then?”

“Mother and Father,” George answered.

“But what happens when the Overseers take
me?”

George was old enough to know there was no answer to that question. But he could not bear to force his brother to face that truth yet.

He held his knuckles gently to his brother’s temples. “I will
always
protect you, Ruhtra,” he promised. “In Andarko’s name.”

Ruhtra had held George’s knuckles in place. They stood for a long time without talking. And the only sound was the distant pulse of the power plants and the faint splatter of George’s blood as it dripped from his arm to the deck. The pulse of the ship. The primal call for blood . . .

“Groon-cha! Groon-cha!”

In the darkness of the holding chamber, George cradled Ruhtra in his arms. At the farthest end of the bench in the players’ cage, a third prisoner stared impassively at the thick diagonal bars that imprisoned them. In less than a month he would be named Thomas Edison, but for now he was Zicree, a friend to George and a champion of the Game.

The pneumatic door that led to the Game chamber slid open, bringing dim blue light to the mist that filled the room—the powerless residue of the gas that had filled the ship so recently, now pooling here in the lowest decks. The chanting of the crowd grew louder. Two Overseers passed by, bent over by the weight of the body they dragged. One Overseer followed, grinning maniacally. It was Coolock, and this hellish warren of dark chambers in the ship’s bowels was his domain.

“Who’s next?” Coolock called out. His deep voice boomed against the hard metal walls of the holding chamber. He stopped by George’s cage and clanged his prod deafeningly against the bars. “Ah, you’re awake now, Stangya. I’ve read your records. It’s been such a long time since you were here. Feel up to another round?”

George said nothing. He glared at Coolock with rage. It was one thing to execute those who broke the rules of the ship, but to play the Game was barbaric. George knew. He had played it before.

“What about your brother?” Coolock asked with mock solicitude. “Still sleeping, is he? Not fond of the bite of the prod?”

George held Ruhtra close to him, praying he would not wake. They had both been shocked by Coolock’s prod in the corridor outside the tunnel intersection where they had been found by the Overseers who had followed George. George had thought the moment that the prod descended upon him would be his last. But somehow he had not been surprised when he had wakened in the darkness of this cage, hearing the high-pitched whine of the
wojchek
in the next chamber. George knew full well that he alone was responsible for Ruhtra’s presence here, so he grimly welcomed this brief extension of life if it meant he could pay the price for that mistaken betrayal of his brother. Especially if it gave him a chance to be within arm’s reach of Coolock on the way into the Game chamber.

But Coolock had already moved on to other matters. He gazed admiringly at Zicree. “Rest, champion. There will be more important rounds for you to play.” Then Coolock turned his back on George and swaggered across the chamber to a second cage filled with other terrified players. “Who shall it be?” he asked them. “Who shall be next to sit at the table?”

George heard a wail of despair as Coolock held out his prod to select the next player. The cage doors rattled as the other Overseers dragged the struggling prisoner to his round with the
wojchek.
Coolock laughed as the crowd cheered. George held Ruhtra. Things had gone wrong too quickly. This was not victory. This was not even the escape of oblivion. The door slid shut, dulling the sounds of the Game chamber and cutting off almost all light.

“Zicree,” George whispered. “How many rounds do they play each shift?” He had to know how much longer he might have. If he went first, then perhaps Ruhtra might survive until the rebellion was underway.

Zicree shrugged as if George had asked him about which of two vegrowths tasted better. George didn’t understand his friend’s passivity. From the chamber came the hydraulic thud of the
wojchek
stopping and locking into position. It was followed by the roar of the crowd as the first high-pressure discharge blasted forth. But the roar did not last long. It had only been vapor and not salt water. The player had survived. The
wojchek
began to whine again. The crowd returned to chanting.

“Are you not frightened?” George asked.

“Of what?” Zicree asked. “To live on the ship. To die on the ship. What difference can there be?”

George wanted to tell his friend that for once there was hope. That a rebellion was underway. But there could be Overseers in the dark, hiding from the prisoners, and George finally understood the importance of revealing nothing. Without
keer’chatlas,
the rebellion would never have advanced beyond a few whispered dreams.

The roar of a second blast of the
wojchek
came from the Game chamber. Again the cries of the crowd died away in disappointment. The
wojchek
whirled again.

“How many rounds will they play?” George asked urgently. He had to know if there was any hope at all for Ruhtra.

Zicree placidly turned to his friend. They had been mine workers together, endless months spent beneath the surfaces of nameless planets—a
jabroka-
induced haze of labor lightened only by the presence of others who could share the burden. But it appeared as if there was nothing that could lift the burden of whatever it was that Zicree now silently endured.

“It doesn’t matter what they used to do,” Zicree said. “I have heard the Overseers talking. This shift is closed. The corridors are sealed. There is no place for the audience to go. So they will play and play and keep playing.”

George dropped his voice to an almost undetectable whisper, afraid that the Overseers might detect his agitation. “Why is the shift closed? Why have they sealed the corridors?”

“Why does it matter?” Zicree said.

The
wojchek
fired. The crowd screamed, almost overcoming the piercing cries of the unlucky player who had just lost his round and his life.

Coolock returned, his boots treading in the smear of blood that streaked the deck of the holding chamber, left by the salt-riddled bodies that were dragged through it to the recyclers. He smiled as he passed George. “Don’t worry, Stangya,” the Overseer said. “Your time will come soon enough. As will Ruhtra’s.”

He walked over to another cage. “Who’s next?” he asked. “Who’s next to sit at the table?”

From the next chamber the captive crowd chanted. The sounds of the
wojchek
being reloaded with its canisters of water and salt clanked from the Game chamber. The Overseers who tended the prisoners stood by the cages and complained that it was going to be a long shift.

And George Francisco knew that one way or another, it would also be the last.

B
UCK SCREAMED AS
the saltwater took Melgil, but his cry was unheard over the Overseer’s shout of rage. The others Buck had seen die in the tank had only been faceless workers. Their fate had been the deserved fate of all who would disobey the Overseers. He had been disturbed by what he had witnessed, even appalled, but he had not been touched by the horror of it until now, when it happened to someone he knew.

Melgil never surfaced. The recycling tank bubbled pink with fresh blood. The Overseer who had killed the Elder turned to face the others in the infirmary, as if daring Moodri or Buck or even Cathy, still on the deck, to protest what he had done.

But Moodri bowed his head and pushed Buck back onto the sleeping platform. Cathy only gasped for breath.

“Should recycle you all,” the Overseer muttered. “Useless
sta.
Filthy cargo.” Then he grabbed a three-needled injector from the tangle of medical equipment on the work station and lurched for the infirmary door. When it slid aside for him, Buck could see the first purple tinge of holy gas in the corridor. It was not as heavy as it had been in the past
crayg,
but it was apparent that the Overseers were attempting to flood the ship again.

The Overseer medics saw the initial tendrils of gas seeping into the infirmary and immediately began to secure their patients’ treatment harnesses to stretcher poles. Within a minute they were carrying their patients from the infirmary, and when the door closed behind them only Moodri, Buck, and Cathy remained.

As soon as he heard the door clank shut, Buck wriggled out of Moodri’s grip and jumped to the floor. He felt dizzy for a few moments, but the effects of D’wayn’s prod and Cathy’s injection had almost worn off. He stared helplessly at the tank of churning salt water. Melgil’s pink-stained robes floated on the surface. “What about the key?” he asked suddenly. How could any of this end without the key?

Moodri went to Cathy and helped her to her feet. Her eyes looked into a distance that was beyond the ship. The gas had already begun to affect her. “Do you have any gloves?” Moodri asked. “Any tongs or poles or anything I can use to get the key?”

Cathy blinked at the Elder as if she had never seen him before.

Moodri laid his hands on Cathy’s head, his fingers seeking specific points, though Buck did not know why. “Please, Gelana,” the Elder said calmly, “the circuitry cannot withstand the corrosion of the salt. Is there any way to drain the tank?”

But Cathy bowed her head. “No equipment,” she murmured, her words slurring with the gas. “They give us nothing. The water keeps circulating. No end.” She seemed about to faint.

Buck looked from his great-uncle to the tank and back again. Without thinking, he walked over to Moodri and began to speak aloud the words of the prayer for Andarko’s guidance. And then, unexpectedly, Moodri put his knuckles to Buck’s temple and said, “Of course, Finiksa. You have seen the way.”

Buck didn’t understand. Moodri left him and walked over to the recycler. He climbed up on the raised section of the deck beside the transparent vat until he was kneeling beside the lip.

“Uncle Moodri?” Buck called out uncertainly.

Moodri smiled back at him. “All that is, is the same, Finiksa. How can there be conflict amongst any of it?” Carefully, deliberately, he began rolling up the sleeve of his robe.

“No,” Buck said, running across the room as he finally understood what his great-uncle planned to do.

Moodri plunged his arm into the tank. He bent closer until his head was only inches from the bubbling surface of the corrosive liquid. His eyes were closed. His face at peace. His arm moved ceaselessly over the bottom of the tank.

Buck pressed his hands to the edge of the raised deck and felt his spots pucker and his eyes expand until he thought they would burst.

Yet Moodri’s face remained serene. Salt water dripped from the side of his head, but Buck could see no burn marks. Moodri’s arm was submerged to his shoulder, but his uncle did not cry out in pain.

To Buck it was as if a glow of golden light had appeared in the infirmary. He remembered blue fields and drifting currents of stars. He saw Moodri’s face in that glow, caught up by the stars, swept into the fields. The constant pulse of the ship’s power plants was forgotten. There was a different sound that filled Buck’s being. A more elemental rhythm, one that drove the stars.

“Moodri,” Buck whispered, scarcely conscious of what he saw or spoke or felt.

Moodri straightened up. His arm glistened with the bloodstained liquid that could dissolve Tenctonese flesh in seconds. And that arm was whole. From the shoulder to the unharmed hand that held a long, slender black slab engraved with an elaborate pattern of golden wires.

Moodri opened his eyes again. Buck wanted to weep. From fear, from joy, from wonder. It didn’t matter. What he had seen was something that he thought occurred only in the ancient stories of the days when Andarko and Celine walked among ordinary people.