Lost and Found (21 page)

“Inventory struggles to survive,” Dven-Palt pointed out. “The natural desire of any captive upon regaining freedom of movement would be to retain it for as long as possible.
That
is their purpose.”

“Well appraised,” Klos-Jlad agreed. “Still, I cannot keep from wondering if there might be . . .” As his voice trailed away, his avatar faded commensurately.

Having held her peace for as long as possible, Shib-Kirn now clamored for attention. “I agree completely with Brid-Nwol. Inventory cannot be allowed to wander at will through the interstices of the ship. If they do not do something harmful out of malice, they may very well do it out of fatigue, or unawareness, or in the spirit of experimentation.” Her gaze encompassed every one of the other attendant avatars.

“I, for one, do not intend to stand quietly by waiting for calamity to strike. A manipulative appendage inserted in the wrong control field can be as damaging as a bomb attached to critical instrumentation. Furthermore, there is the matter of the murderous Tuuqalian. Four dead members is too high a price to pay for preservation of a future sale. It is true that these four remaining unrecovered inventory represent a profit. They also represent a grave threat. I do not believe that the former exceeds the latter. They should be terminated on sight.”

The uproar that ensued among the assembled avatars took all of Pret-Klob’s skill at soothing to quell. When at last the commotion had died down and the heads had resumed their normal positions and levels of brightness, he addressed the ongoing muttering.

“I agree that we cannot allow inventory, particularly this highly inventive and resourceful quartet of inventory, to run freely through our ship. At the same time it must be conceded that based on events to date, the four have demonstrated skills and talents that render them far more valuable than originally thought. Based on this new information, I have had the ship reappraise their potential value to certain of our regular, best customers.”

Mathematics appeared, superimposed on the spherical darkness. In response, comments flew. Like the discussion that had preceded them, they were mightily conflicted.

Silent up to now, Bren-Trad anxiously vouchsafed his opinion. “We cannot just throw away profit like that!” Though some were grudging, the accords that were declaimed in response to Pret-Klob’s presentation were largely of similar mind. This was duly noted by all.

“Such is our conundrum, members of the association. The more aptitude and skill the free-roaming inventory demonstrates, the greater their increase in value. The longer they remain at large, the more they validate their enhanced worth.”

“By that argument,” Brid-Nwol grumbled unrepentantly, “their value will be at its greatest when they have killed us all.”

“And so it would be,” agreed Pret-Klob without a hint of irony. “However, in order to take advantage of that increased value, we must see to it that it does not quite reach that rarefied level of accomplishment. The astray inventory
must
be recaptured alive. If for no other reason than that we still do not know how they managed to escape their secured enclosures in the first place.”

“One survivor out of four would suffice to provide an explanation.” Brid-Nwol was running out of contesting capital, and knew it. “The others could be purged.”

“Profit,” Klos-Jlad observed sagely, “entails risk. Death is the bottom line. Revenue rises above it. I say the association votes to redouble its efforts to recover the missing inventory—alive. Time enough later, if no other choice remains, to implement termination.”

Reluctant in light of the deaths that had been inflicted by the Tuuqalian and the humiliation that had been exacted by all four of the absent inventory, the association decided to proceed as the venerable Klos-Jlad recommended. It was thus agreed: Further attempts would be made to recover the inventory. But at the insistence of Brid-Nwol, Shub-Kirn, and others of similar persuasion, Pret-Klob was compelled to place a time limit on the recovery effort. If the missing inventory had not been recovered in marketable condition within one more ten-day, then the hunting teams would exchange their capture strategy for one of outright extermination.

While Pret-Klob was not comfortable with this decision, Bren-Trad and his allies were positively livid. The fervor with which they continued to voice their objections was laudable, but they were outvoted. Profit or no profit, if the inventory had not been restored within the agreed-upon time period, steps would be taken to eliminate it. Pret-Klob sighed internally. No one was satisfied with the final outcome of the consultation. Such was the life of a chosen manager. With luck, and if all went well, the wandering stock would be safely recovered, healthy and in fully saleable condition, and that would be the end of the unruly disputation among members. If not—if the process went wrong, or the specter of something ugly and unforeseen materialized . . .

More than almost anything else, he dreaded the prospect of having to sign off on a write-down of the value of a portion of ship’s inventory.

13

The view out the port should have been awe-inspiring. Shifted stars and glossy nebulae in far denser concentrations than were visible from anywhere on Earth formed a galactic sky electric with swaths and streaks of color as pure as the elements of which they were composed. Walker could only stare in silence. The sight was mind-numbing, not inspirational. Instead of primal beauty, it only reminded him of how far he was from home, and how unlikely it was that he would ever see it again. Next to him George stood on his hind legs, balancing himself upright with his front paws on the lower edge of the transparency. If the dog’s emotions were similarly affected by the sight, he did not show them. Absorbed in examination of a nearby storage bin, Sque ignored both them and the view, while a contemplative Braouk squatted thoughtfully nearby and recited strange verse under his breath.

Forgoing the reality of the breathtaking spectacle’s crushing magnificence, Walker turned away. To shift his thoughts from the hopelessness the view incited within him, he speculated on the port’s purpose. What was it doing here, away from general access corridors, buried deep within a dark, narrow serviceway? Had it been installed as an afterthought by the ship’s designers? Was it placed here on a whim, to provide an unexpected diversion for any Vilenjji who happened to find themselves in this remote and little-visited part of the enormous vessel? Or did it serve some purpose unknown and unimaginable to him, a visitor from a distant world for whom such technology prior to his abduction had never been anything more than a separate section of the daily news? One to which he paid attention only when it affected the stock market.

He didn’t know. Neither did Sque, or Braouk. It was simply a port, an unexpected window on the universe located in an unlikely place. To learn the reason for its peculiar placement one would have to inquire of the Vilenjji, or the ship’s builders.

Walker wished they had never come across it. Until now, it had been possible for him to entertain thoughts of returning home, however faint the prospect. Cocooned within the vastness of the Vilenjji craft, his mind had been sheltered from the reality of the universe outside. Now that he had looked upon it again, had been forced to contemplate the existence of a cosmos in which Earth was not even visible, the truth of his situation had been driven home with a force no fantasy of repatriation could overcome.

He was lost. Gone, stolen, adrift among the firmament, destined to be treated as nothing more than a piece of walking, talking merchandise intended to fetch a certain price. A commodity to be sold and perhaps traded.

The irony of it did not escape him.

Weighed down by circumstance he sat down on the hard deck, his back to the thick wall pierced only by the port through which the light of unwelcome stars poured relentlessly. Dropping his head into his hands, he lamented his condition. He did not cry. Despondent or not, aimless unhindered wandering through the dark corridors of the alien ship was still better than squirming like a zoo specimen in a cage within the pampering confines of the Vilenjji enclosures.

Walking up to him, George plunked his head down on Walker’s right knee. Eyes as soulful as any rendered by Botticelli gazed up at him. “Feeling low, Marc?”

Walker took a deep breath, composed himself, and indicated the softly lambent port above and to the right of where he was sitting. “It’s one thing not to be able to see a way home. It’s another not to even be able to
see
home.”

The dog shifted his head to glance up at the port. “Hey, it’s out there, Marc. Somewhere. Kind of like trying to find a bone in a ballpark, maybe, but it’s still there.”

“So what,” he muttered. “Might as well be around the next bend in the proverbial road for all the good it does us.” Looking back down at the dog, he ran his fingers through the thick fur atop his friend’s head. “Did you know that light bends? I remember hearing about that on the evening news one time. In between the other twenty-four minutes of murder and mayhem.”

“Everything bends,” George replied somberly, “or it breaks. That’s been a big-time dog tenet for thousands of years. It’s one reason why we get along so well with you apes.”

A smile leaked through Walker’s melancholy. Using both hands now, he ruffled the brown curls on the dog’s neck. “Another is that you’re good medicine for us, George. I have this feeling that if I hadn’t met up with you I’d have gone stark raving mad by now. We’re not going home, you know. Ever. I think it’s time to start getting used to the idea. Either the Vilenjji will recapture us, or we’ll die in some unused black back passageway like this one—out of food, out of water, and out of hope.”

“Listless biped.”

Walker’s attention snapped over to the maroon-hued alien who was compacted in the shadows on the other side of the window. “I’m not in the mood for your insults, Sque.” Wearily, Walker repeatedly ran a hand through his own hair. “I know you’re too full of yourself to suffer from this kind of depression, but you’ll just have to put up with the rest of us—those of us who are realists and understand the hopelessness of our situation.”

“What makes you think it is hopeless, human?” In the dim light, the flat, silvery eyes of the K’eremu glistened with a metallic sheen that matched the aloofness of her voice.

A glum Walker shifted his backside against the hard material of the deck. “Well, let’s see. We’re trapped on a hostile vessel in deep space; we’re running out of food and drink; we’re undoubtedly being pursued around the clock by greedy, contemptuous Vilenjji who can’t wait to offload us on some unimaginable world where we’ll be treated as no better than property; and the best we can hope for is to keep roaming through the interior of this ship without a destination in mind until they pick us up again. Other than that,” he concluded caustically, “I would have to agree that our situation is not hopeless.”

“You are correct about nearly everything,” Sque replied with unexpected forbearance, “except when you say that we have no destination in mind.”

Braouk perked up from where he was leaning against a cylindrical frame nearly as big as himself. “What mean you, small-mouthed in darkness, sputtering mysteries?”

Twisting her body effortlessly, she looked over at the towering Tuuqalian. “Your people are space-going, are they not?” Braouk gestured back affirmatively. “Your people are brave, and committed, and in their simpleminded way sentient, are they not?”

The Tuuqalian’s tone sank ominously lower. “How long will you ask of me that which you already know, gray splotch on the shipscape?”

Walker and George hunkered down against the wall beside the port. Though they had come to trust Braouk implicitly, the giant was still utterly alien. The line between his controlled rages and his uncontrolled ones was very slim, and neither man nor dog wished to be caught between them.

Fortunately for Sque, she was too egotistical to be scared. “When bravery pushes up against sentience, common sense comes to the fore. It is to be assumed that your space-traversing vessels are not perfect. Accordingly, it must also be assumed that they have built into them systems and devices designed to cope with emergencies ranging from the simplest to the most extreme. I am referring, self-evidently, to means for evacuation.”

She went silent, as if this explained everything. Determined to interpret the implication without having to have it spelled out for him as if to a child, Walker strained to make the correct inference. To his surprise, he actually did so.

“Lifeboats! You’re talking about lifeboats. Or at least some kind of secondary vessel that can be detached from the main craft.” For some reason, George’s look of admiration meant more to him than Sque’s diffident gesture of approval.

“The humble biped from a simple world is correct. My too-rapid but still marginally adequate examination of the minutiae of the control box in the corridor tangent to the enclosures revealed to me that this vessel of reasonable size is equipped with as many as four self-contained evacuation craft. It is my intention to seize one, utilize emergency procedures to detach from the main vessel, and flee to the nearest enlightened world that is an affiliate of galactic civilization.”

“Are you a pilot, too?” Walker was more than a little overcome by the sudden possibilities the K’eremu had opened up.

The contemptuous tone returned. As was usual with Sque, it did not have very far to travel. “‘Pilot’? Lowly ignorant human, how often must I remind you? Ships intended for use in deep space do not have pilots. Every vessel that is built to travel between the stars is constructed around a central neural cortex whose synthetic life purpose is to guide and maintain the craft of which it comprises such a significant part. No known organic intelligence is capable of performing the necessary permutations with the required speed and accuracy. The K’eremu come close, of course, but choose to devote themselves to higher purposes.”

Braouk embellished the explanation. “Any secondary craft designed to preserve organics in an emergency is equipped with a similar cortex. They are built to do only that. Small ship surviving, to the nearest world, automatically goes.”

“Then all we have to do is steal one, cut loose, and it’ll do the rest.” For the first time in days, George’s tail was wagging energetically again.

Walker was far less sanguine. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Then I have failed to choose my words appropriately, because it will not be so.” Confident Sque might be, but she was not naÏve. “I have not mentioned this previously because I did not want to raise false hopes among those primitives for whom wishful thinking is such an important component of their mental makeup. But it has been my intention all along to attempt such a venture. It may fail. We may perish in the attempt. But it is a greater goal to aspire to than a limited lifetime of wandering the bowels of this inhospitable craft.”

“Suppose we do manage to pull it off?” George wondered aloud. “Won’t the Vilenjji just follow and pick us up all over again?” Painful precognitive memories flooded back, of friends being snatched by the remorseless employees and vehicles of City Animal Control, only to escape and be picked up again in a vicious, unending cycle of freedom and imprisonment.

“That is possible,” Sque readily conceded. “However, there is a reasonable chance that we may be able to make it to a nearby inhabited world before Vilenjji instrumentation can lock on with sufficient assurance to run us down.” Tentacles writhed. “I ask you: Is it not worth trying?”

Walker rose from where he had been sitting. His depression had not left him, but a surge of determination was beginning to push it aside. “Anything’s better than stumbling around in the dark waiting for the Vilenjji to pick us up again. Even,” he heard himself saying, voicing a phrase he once could never have imagined himself mouthing, “if we die trying.”

“That is my nice, single-minded little biped,” Sque commented approvingly. “We shall make the effort.”

“If you can conceive of doing something like this, won’t the Vilenjji?” George observed sagely. “And in that case, won’t they have their secondary craft secured, with guards posted to watch over them?”

The K’eremu eyed him pityingly. Which is to say, as usual. “Firstly, to so secure a secondary vessel designed to facilitate swift escape in the event of emergency would be to defeat its purpose. Second, the disregard in which the Vilenjji hold their captives precludes their belief that any of them could attempt something so audacious. To allow the latter would be to admit to an intelligence and abilities on the part of their captives that would raise discomfiting ethical questions about their commerce that the Vilenjji would much prefer not to ponder.” Tentacles bobbed and weaved for emphasis as she regarded each of them in turn.

“That is not to say we will be able to stroll right up to a relief craft, saunter through its open accessway, take possession of it, and disengage from this vessel without first having to deal with an impediment or two. But it is not to say that it will be impossible, either. We will know better what obstacles we face when we are in a position to act on them.”

“And when might that be?” With every passing moment, now that a glimmer of hope had been raised, Walker was feeling more and more revitalized.

Within their recesses, horizontal eyes went dark. “If the ship schematic I have memorized is accurate, and we encounter no diversions or delays, I should think by the time we have all passed through our next sleep cycle.” Silver eyes opened. “Tomorrow, as you would say.”

Tomorrow. Walker gazed down at the supercilious, conceited, arrogant alien. “Just when were you going to tell us about this, Sque?”

“Tomorrow,” she replied coolly. “Your present wretched emotional condition persuaded me to enlighten you a bit sooner. I realize it may require an unusual effort on your part, but do try to sustain some sense of zeal until we are free or dead, won’t you? In support of the endeavor I propose, your purported mind is surplus baggage, but in order to succeed I suspect we will have need of as many limbs as possible.”

“Where the hell does that leave me?” George wanted to know.

The K’eremu’s eyes dropped to the dog. “Underfoot, most likely. A distraction, at the least. Do not despair. While I can envision numerous possible scenarios, I have no doubt that each will have their part to play in this forthcoming drama.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Walker found himself gazing once more out the port. All of a sudden, the rainbow incandescence did not seem quite so threateningly vast, quite so terribly intimidating. “What do we do now?”

Sque turned slightly away from him. “We have already enjoyed a small measure of success by employing the tactic known as a strategic diversion. I have in mind another.”

“Using the Vilenjji’s own technology against them?” George inquired eagerly. “Shutting something else down?”

“Rather more low-tech than that,” the K’eremu replied.

Taking a step forward, the hunched-over Braouk loomed over them all. “I find something large, solid, and movable, and flatten several of their pointy crania while the rest of you rush to take control of the chosen craft.”