Orley
Fog swirled over the sea of weeds. That was good, up to a point. It made stealth easier. But it also made it hard to look for traps.
Tom searched carefully as he crawled across the last stretch of weeds before the open end of the wrecked cruiser. This patch couldn’t be taken underwater, and he didn’t doubt those who had taken shelter within the hulk had set up defenses.
He found a device only a few meters from the gaping opening. Thin wires were strung from one small hump of vines to the next. Tom inspected the arrangement, then carefully dug below the tripwire and slithered underneath. When he was clear, he scrambled quietly to the edge of the floating ship and rested against the pitted hull.
The weed beasties had taken cover during the fighting. They were out again, now that almost all of the combatants were dead. Their frog-like croaks refracted eerily in the noisome vapor Distantly, Tom heard the rumble of the volcano. His empty stomach growled. It sounded loud enough to rouse the Progenitors.
He checked his weapon. The needler had only a few shots left. He had better be right about the number of ETs that had taken shelter aboard this vessel.
I’d better be right about a number of things, he reminded himself. I’ve staked a lot on there being food here, as well as the information I need.
He closed his eyes in brief meditation, then turned to crouch below the opening. He peeked one eye just past the ragged edge.
Three bird-like Gubru huddled around a motley array of equipment on the smoke-stained, canted deck. A tiny, inadequate heater held the attention of two, who warmed slender-honed arms over it. The third sat before a battered portable console and squeaked in Galactic Four, a language popular among many avian species.
“No sign of humans or their clients,” the creature peeped. “We have lost our deep-search equipment, so we cannot be certain. But we find no sign of Earthlings. We cannot achieve anything more. Come for us!”
The radio sputtered. “Impossible to come out of hiding. Impossible to squander last resources at this time. You must maintain. You must lie low. You must wait.”
“Wait? We shelter in a hull whose food supply is radioactive. We shelter in a hull whose equipment is ruined. Yet this hull we shelter in is the best still afloat! You must come for us!”
Tom cursed silently at the news. So much for eating.
The radio operator maintained its protests. The other two Gubru listened, shifting their weight impatiently. One of them stamped its clawed feet and turned around suddenly as if to interrupt the radio operator. Its gaze swept past the gap in the hull. Before Tom could duck back, the creature’s eyes went wide. It began to point.
“A human! Quickly …”
Tom shot it in the thorax. Without bothering to watch it fall, he dove through the opening and rolled behind a tilted console. He scuttled to the other end and snapped off two quick shots just as the second standing Gubru tried to fire. A thin flame spat out of a small handgun, searing the already scarred ceiling as the alien shrieked and toppled backward.
The Galactic at the radio stared at Tom. It glanced at the radio beside it.
“Don’t even think it,” Tom squawked in heavily accented Galactic Four. The alien’s crest riffled in surprise. It lowered its hands and kept still.
Tom rose carefully, never drawing bead away from the surviving Gubru. “Drop your weapons belt and stand away from the transmitter. Slowly. Remember, we humans are wolflings. We are feral, carnivorous, and extremely fast! Do not make me eat you.” He grinned his broadest grin to display a maximum of teeth.
The creature shuddered and moved to obey. Tom reinforced obedience with a growl. Sometimes a reputation as a primitive had its uses.
“All right,” he said as the alien moved to where he gestured, by the gaping hole. Tom kept his gun trained and sat by the radio. The receiver gave out excited twitters.
He recognized the model, thank Ifni, and switched it off. “Were you transmitting when your friend here spotted me?” he asked his captive. He wondered if the commander of the hidden Gubru forces had heard the word “human.”
The Galactic’s comb fluttered. Its answer was so irrelevant that Tom momentarily wondered if Le had totally misphrased the question.
“You must surrender pride,” it chanted, puffing its feathers. “All young ones must surrender pride. Pride leads to error. Hubris leads to error. Only orthodoxy can save.