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    Supplicants
    Supplicants
    Supplicants
    Ebook454 pages6 hours

    Supplicants

    By Graham Storrs

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    About this ebook

    First contact with an intelligent alien species had not just been a disaster, it had been a bloodbath.

    Now, what is left of the crew of the Canta Libre, Earth's emissaries, must travel on, deeper into the galaxy, to plead for help from another, more powerful race, the Iffot Onni. But their would-be saviours are in the throes of a violent civil war when the humans arrive and Iffot leaders are in no mood to deal with backward aliens from the Milky Way's rimward wasteland.

    Struggling to bring their message to the Iffot kings despite factional wars and interspecies treachery, the humans hear that a war has broken out at home. Now their own people have cancelled the mission and are demanding the crew of the Canta Libre return to Earth to face trial for treason. But Captain Robert Ashton and his unlikely collection of civilians, scientists and engineers are determined to save humanity, whatever the cost.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGraham Storrs
    Release dateJul 6, 2015
    ISBN9780992498856
    Supplicants
    Author

    Graham Storrs

    Graham Storrs is a science fiction writer who lives miles from anywhere in rural Australia with his wife and a Tonkinese cat. He has published many short stories in magazines and anthologies as well as three children's science books and a large number of academic and technical pieces in the fields of psychology, artificial intelligence and human-computer interaction.He has published a number of sci-fi novels, in four series; Timesplash (three books), the Rik Sylver sci-fi thriller series (three books), the Canta Libre space opera trilogy. and the Deep Fracture trilogy. He has also published an augmented reality thriller, "Heaven is a Place on Earth", a sci-fi comedy novel, "Cargo Cult", a dark comedy time travel novel, "Time and Tyde", and an urban sci-fi thriller, "Mindrider."

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      Book preview

      Supplicants - Graham Storrs

      Part 1

      Chapter 1

      Aliens!

      The trajectory was unmistakable. The ship was coming in from the Wilderness, that huge, empty tract of stars stretching all the way from the border to the very Rim. As far as the mind that ran Forward Border Watch Platform 34763 knew, there were no proper civilisations out there at all. That is, nothing that could produce an infra-reality drive. The mind logged its finding and sent a report back to Watch Control at Ferrum Doa. Just a small ship, judging by the signature, and primitive. Very primitive. The energy it was squandering was scandalous. Still, that was a matter for the Environment Ministry. There would probably be fines, or, more likely, bribes to be paid, if the aliens wished to travel in Iffot Onni space in that thing, and they were just days from the border, obviously on a course for Adanor.

      The Forward Border Watch rimward of Adanor was the most boring duty any mind could be assigned. Not really enough of a job to justify a mind, the mind thought. But minds are cheap, it added, quoting the old saw. Even this little craft was enough to brighten its day. And it was a very small craft. The stunnel it travelled in was barely wide enough to accommodate a private yacht. In fact, if it had not been for the sleet of particles radiating from its wake, the mind would have assumed it was a young noble on a jaunt – hunting or exploring or whatever took their fancy. Of course, the craft could have been damaged in some way but the signature did not match the diagnostic for any failure mode the mind knew about. The only conclusion was that some primitive alien species had blundered into Iffot Onni space. They did that sometimes – every few hundred years – and Adanor – beautiful Adanor – was so often their destination.

      Perhaps they're very small aliens, the mind mused. Like the Nicoisi. The Nicoisi were tiny, less than a metre tall. Not the smallest level five sapient race ever discovered, but not far from it. The Iffot Onni found them cute and amusing and there had been a fashion these past two hundred years for the young nobility to keep one as a pet. The mind accessed recordings of the frail little creatures, climbing around on their masters and mistresses, tumbling about, watching shows, whispering jokes in peoples' ears in their little, piping voices. They were a very playful species and remarkably cheerful, considering they were slaves, but the mind could not see what was so interesting or amusing about them. It ran a search on the psychological literature on the Iffot Onni and their pets, and was about to select a few texts to browse when a news item on the public feed caught its attention.

      ...of the noble Origa family is believed to have been killed along with her personal guard and seventeen others. The rebels have issued no demands but are holding the citadel while units of the Imperial Guard assemble outside. And reports are coming in of at least three similar incidents in other parts of the Academies. There was a pause in the broadcast. The mind was concerned to hear the faint sounds of confusion in the background of the signal. We have just heard the sounds of weapons fire on the outskirts of this Academy. King Meredes and his men are believed to be fighting off another rebel attack right here in the Palace.

      And then there was silence.

      The mind, in its lonely border post, far away from the Academies of Adanor, was beginning to grow alarmed. It had heard rumours – who had not? – of increasing rebel activity as malcontents and trouble-makers rallied to the flag of the insurgent Errig Harragar. But the disgraced noble was in hiding, his rebel followers were being hunted through the streets and sewers of the Academies. That's what the Palace had told everyone. So how could they stage such a massive uprising? How could they dare to attack the King in his own home? But the news feed was active again. This time, with a different face and a different voice.

      People of the Iffot Onni. This is Protector Errig Harragar. Please remain calm. Go to your homes and remain there for now. The forces of the Revolution have taken the Academies. King Meredes is dead. Members of his corrupt court are being rounded up as I speak and executed for their crimes against the Iffot. A new Golden Age has dawned. A blow has been struck today for the freedom and glory of the Iffot Onni that will echo down the ages and strike fear into the hearts of all other species. All true-hearted iffot are welcome to join the ranks of the Revolution.

      The mind watched the big iffot, flushing grimly from the feed. Options appeared, inviting people to view other information; 'The Manifesto', 'A Call to Arms', 'An Indictment of King Meredes and Other Criminals', and so on.

      Together we are not Onni! Errig cried and the broadcast ended. There was no news on any other feed, just silence everywhere.

      Well, thought the mind, our little alien friends picked an interesting time to visit Adanor!

      -oOo-

      Aliens!

      Bigfoot would have spat if he had had the mouth for it. He hated aliens. He hated dealing with aliens. Aliens were nasty, ugly, stupid, brutish. And the Iffot Onni were the nastiest, ugliest, stupidest and most brutish of the lot! And now the hulking great things were going to start shooting each other!

      Unbelievable!

      Muttering and grumbling to himself, the Sevran picked up his sample bag and made for the exit. Adanor was no place to be just now. In fact, it would be a good idea to get right out of Iffot Onni space before their ridiculous revolution got out of hand and movement became completely impossible. Why do I do it? the creature moaned, his manipulators signing the words nervously although there was nobody there to see them – and nobody within a hundred light years who could understand Sevran anyway. I'm a smart cookie, he whined to himself. I could have been an administrator, like my clutchmates. I could have been a scientist, or a teacher. Why oh why do I risk my precious hide like this? Why do I spend my life among the vilest, most stupid creatures in Aribontha's Creation?

      But Bigfoot knew why, of course. He did it for the money. A clever Sevran could make a small fortune trading across the Barrak border, supplying illegal Iffot Onni technologies to the Barrackans and illegal Barrack narcotics to the Iffot Onni. And Bigfoot, being a clever Sevran, had done just that.

      But I wasn't clever enough though, was I? he berated himself, sliding as quickly as his cilia would take him along the endless streets of Bundar Academy. I should have retired years ago. I could have bought myself a nice, wooded hill on Sevra. Sand! I could have bought an entire mountain range on Echros Minor! I could be there now, doing the Life Dance with my friends, enjoying the evening warmth and humidity, eating falla and drinking clean water.

      He came to a side street and ducked in. Bigfoot always made a point of knowing all the quickest and most discrete routes back to his ship. It would have been quicker to take a bus, of course, but the Iffot Onni were already starting to board the buses, demanding to see identification. King’s men, presumably, trying to contain the outbreak. Bigfoot stepped up the pace. This was no time to be an alien in Iffot Onni space. The great hulking brutes were intolerant and bigoted enough at the best of times. Give them the slightest excuse and they'd revert to being the full-blown xenophobes they really were. Oh why, oh why? his manipulators signed.

      The narrow street opened into a broad thoroughfare and Bigfoot paused, sliding back into the shadows. A fight was going on out there. A few of the King's men were pinned down behind a crashed flyer, taking fire from a group of rebels in the buildings opposite. The rebels were clearly winning and, even as he watched, Bigfoot saw another of the King's men die. With screaming engines, another flyer came racing down the street, King Meredes' colours blazoned on its side. It flew straight at the rebels, strafing their position from the air. Yet, even as the rebels died, or ran for their lives, a ground-to-air missile streaked out from somewhere further down the street and dodged and swerved its way into the tail of the King's flyer. There was a powerful explosion – even so far away, it hit Bigfoot like a slap in the face – and the remains of the flyer went careening into the side of a building.

      I have got to get off this station! Bigfoot signed to himself, his little manipulator tentacles working anxiously. He hurried into the main street, heading away from the burning wreckage and the gunfire that was starting up again. Iffot were running all over the place, lumbering along on their four stout legs, barely noticing the Sevran gliding along among them in their eagerness to save their own, thick skins. There were Nicoisis too – poor little things – scampering along with their owners, or running aimless and loose, having become separated. Bigfoot saw no other aliens. The Iffot Onni were not known for their tolerance of other species – especially not here in Adanor!

      He turned into another side-street and began working his way across the city towards the space docks. The sounds of battle receded slowly.

      Halt!

      The voice was loud and aggressive. Bigfoot, whose ears detected only very high frequencies, 'heard' it only in his head, through the tranny. He turned slowly and carefully, swivelling his eye pod ahead of his body, to find an Iffot lumbering towards him, weapon raised. From the mess of symbols and emblems that hung around its body, Bigfoot identified it as a King's man.

      What are you doing here, dung grub? the soldier demanded.

      Bigfoot winced at the insult but did not become angry. Even the most friendly of Iffot Onni were prone to be carelessly racist. It was just their way. They meant nothing by it – other than a towering contempt for anyone who was not Iffot Onni.

      I'm a trader, Bigfoot said, honestly enough. I have been making arrangements with the Duchess of Echibar for… an exchange of goods. I travel under her protection.

      The soldier flushed sceptically. After so many years working with these beings, Bigfoot was beginning to understand the subtle colour changes in their hides that indicated mood.

      Name? the soldier demanded, although, perhaps, a shade less aggressively now. The Duchess was a powerful woman and close to the King.

      Bigfoot gave an elaborate flourish of his manipulators. He had a good name. Not only did it indicate excellent lineage but it was visually elegant and pleasing. He was quite proud of it. Translation into Wawa, the main language of the Iffot Onni, was impossible, so they had given him a name when he first registered with the border police. This was the name the soldier heard through his tranny: Bigfoot.

      Suits you, the soldier muttered, distractedly.

      Bigfoot could tell that data concerning himself had begun popping into the brute's memory. Oops, he thought, mocking the iffot's ponderous cognition, this oversized grub really is travelling under the Duchess’s warrant.

      The soldier looked him in the eye. Get to your ship and get off the street. They’re about to announce a general curfew. Anyone found in the streets after that will be shot on sight.

      Bigfoot thanked the nice soldier and scurried on his way, resuming his anxious muttering. It was still half a kilometre to the docks and Sevrans were not known for their prowess as sprinters.

      Chapter 2

      Aboard the spaceship Canta Libre, nothing stirred. For almost a year, it had cruised through interstellar space at almost one thousand times the speed of light and it was now close to its destination; a place the K’Ha had called Adanor but which humankind knew as M27, the Dumbbell Nebula. The great ball of gas and dust, the remains of a five thousand year old stellar explosion, dominated space ahead of them. It glowed faintly in blues and reds, the steady, bright glare of a white dwarf blazing at the heart of it, lighting up the unimaginably huge filaments of stellar debris. Ravelled balls of matter dotted the cloudy dust-lanes, like fur-balls, each one larger than the solar system the humans had left twelve hundred light years behind them.

      In the silent cabins, the crew of the Canta Libre lay in their acceleration couches in timeless stasis. Silver cocoons encased them, reflecting all energies. Inside each cocoon, individuals were frozen in the precise position they had been in a year ago when the ship had left Gamma Sagittae. Some had been talking, others reading. In the control room, Captain Robert Ashton had been making a broadcast to the crew when the stasis had hit. The ship had quickly been released but Ashton had not. Caught in mid-sentence, a wry smile on his lips, only a small fraction of a second had seemed to pass within his cocoon. Not yet enough time for him to be aware of any change. The ship’s artificial mind had noticed however. It had been unable to speak to its captain for the whole of this long, long trip. Even BS, the military robot that was part of the crew, could not be contacted. Isolated within its own silver cocoon, it too had been in stasis. Unlike Ashton, however, the small amount of subjective time that had passed for BS was plenty for it to realise that something was wrong but not yet enough for it to have begun to consider what might have happened.

      In her cabin, Professor Susan Iverson had been talking to the ghost of Akiro Motosako when the stasis had begun. Akiro was a mystery to them all. The Japanese materials specialist had tried to kill them by destroying the infra-reality drive that powered the ship but her attempted sabotage had somehow caused a breach in infra-reality itself that had absorbed her and transformed her. She still seemed to be sentient and, perhaps even human, but she now controlled powers that were definitely super-human. So far, she had used these powers to help them but no-one knew if that was going to last.

      There is so much danger. Please let me help you. The apparition that had once been Akiro had said in those last few moments. Please let me help you, she had urged, her beautiful face glowing with a beatific inner light. Susan Iverson had thought the woman looked like an angel, glorious and powerful.

      Yes! Yes, of course! But what...?

      And then Akiro had plunged them all into stasis.

      For almost a year, the ghost of Akiro had not been seen in the corridors of the ship but now it made an appearance. From the shifting planes of force and deliquescing light around the damaged infra-reality drive, a woman unfolded into our universe. She looked like the late Akiro Motosako but subtly transformed; more beautiful, more splendid, her perfect skin surrounded by an aura of glimmering light, her naked body drifting a little above the floor of the drive room. The magnificent woman moved through the ship, touching it here and there, gentle caresses, her head tilted slightly as if she were listening to something, something outside in the silent void. Then she nodded to herself. They had arrived. It was time to restore the temporal equilibrium of the ship. Time to release the crew from their silver force fields – but carefully, for enormous energies were involved that could easily damage them. She closed her eyes. A moment of pleasure.

      It was done.

      -oOo-

      Rogar, King of Emion, was one of four kings around the mat. There were also five Dukes, an Earl and even a lowly Baron. The real hierarchy wasn't as obvious as the titles suggested, of course. The kings were graded according to their power and wealth, as were the other ranks. Rogar, easily the least of the kings was also, in effect, of lower status than two of the Dukes. Emion, although a fine collection of systems, with the beautiful planet Dorassil at its heart, was not a rich or even a large kingdom. The systems of the Duke of Grenak were considerably more numerous, while the Duke of Bredaval and Cherroth had the wealth of the Pelladorn under his control. Still, Rogar told himself, contentedly, it was something to be a king while still a young man – and a king of the Iffot Onni to boot.

      Seating at the mat was arranged so as to reflect the positions of each of them in the hierarchy of the nobility. Old Travig was at the head, by the water. Strong in his own right, Travig was also brother-in-law to the High King himself. Kings Reporik and Derrig were at his left and right hand respectively. Rogar sat to Derrig's right – he was, after all, a king – with the Duke of Grenak to Reporik's left and Bredaval and Cherroth to Rogar's right and so on down to where the Baron, Torreg, sat almost opposite King Travig. No-one had had to be told his place. They each knew it perfectly.

      All of us know the rules except Errig, Rogar mused.

      Well, you all know why we're here. Travig sounded angry. His usual, no-nonsense manner exaggerated by a rage he was having trouble suppressing.

      They all knew all right! News of the uprising in the Academies was all over the galaxy by now. The High King, Paccar, two hundred light years away in Ferrum Doa had issued peremptory orders to Travig. Crush them! Bring me the Outcast's legs on a plate! King Travig and the others had required no urging. The news of King Meredes' plight had shocked every noble iffot everywhere. The upstart Errig must be destroyed, swiftly and decisively.

      It is lucky for us, Travig went on, that we are the ones closest to the academies. Indeed, the border of Travig's domain with Meredes' was just seven light years from where they sat and just three more from Adanor. They could be there in under four days. The other kings would soon return to their own kingdoms and raise their own armies. They were only here by chance – on diplomatic missions or pleasure trips – and some had many light years to travel to get back home. Some had made it clear they were jealous that Travig had the good luck to be able to strike first. The kudos he would gain with the High King if he crushed this rebellion swiftly would be greatly to his benefit. In the eternal jockeying for position and preferment, such a wonderful opportunity came very rarely.

      Grenak, King Travig growled. Tell me our army is ready.

      Grenak, an effete and mannered iffot, flushed deferentially. Your Highness, we have sixty-three ships ready for immediate departure within the week. Fifty more that can be ready in two but the bulk of the fleet cannot be ready to move for at least twenty days, possibly thirty.

      Travig must already have known this but his rage suddenly erupted. Sixty-three ships? His face was a furious blue-green and everyone around the mat averted their eyes. My wife's Nicoisi can muster a bigger fleet than that! Even bloody Torreg there has more ships in his personal guard!

      Grenak winced at the outburst. Rogar felt a pang of pity for him. They had all known it would be like this as soon as Travig had given Grenak the job of mustering an expeditionary force. None of them were ready for this. The peace had lasted generations.

      Highness, the duke pleaded, not meeting his King's eye. There is much to organise, the logistics of mounting an attack like this necessarily requires time. Ships must be brought together, armed and supplied, men must be brought to the ships. Most of our ships, most of our battalions of men are a long way from Adanor, stationed along other borders where it seemed more likely that they would be needed. We were not deployed in preparation for a revolution. If it was not that the Starbird Fleet was on manoeuvres close to here, we would have had only a handful of ships with which to respond.

      Travig boomed angrily, So it is all the High King's fault for not anticipating this outrageous treason?

      Grenak flushed darkly but he kept control of his anger. Highness, I did not mean to imply any such thing.

      I want those ships, Grenak! How many can leave right now, today?

      The duke's head twitched, a sign of anxiety. Six.

      Travig's eyes flashed with anger and fixated the nobleman as if daring him to defend such a statement. This time the duke looked straight back at his king. Feudal duty was one thing but Grenak was a high-born noble and clearly wasn't going to put up with being harangued like an errant slave. After a moment, he said, If my arrangements displease Your Highness, perhaps you would like to enlighten me as to how they could be improved.

      Travig glared back at him and, for an instant, Rogar thought he saw the old man flush with pleasure. Slowly Travig said, I'm sure you have done the best you can, Grenak. Then he looked around at the others. Very well, we will stop this mutinous rabble with sixty-three ships and a promise. Rogar will command the fleet. There was a flurry of surprise at this. Rogar himself flushed purple with astonishment. It was understood by everyone that the Duke of Grenak would lead the armies. Of course, no-one objected but there was a tension in the room that they all felt. Rogar glanced at Grenak who was glaring down at the mat.

      -oOo-

      After the council, when the plans had been laid and the kings and nobles had dispersed to their various duties, Travig kept Rogar back.

      If I might ask, cousin, Rogar began as soon as they were alone. Why me?

      The king turned to face him. Grenak is already too strong. I can't have him wandering about the place with an army at his back.

      You don't trust the Duke, yet you trust me?

      I don't like Grenak. He's always plotting against me.

      Rogar smiled, the pale green flush lighting up his young face. You're a king, cousin, everyone is plotting against you!

      Travig smiled too. Rogar knew the old curmudgeon liked him. He had liked his father too. Are you plotting against me, Rogar of Emion?

      Now Rogar laughed, colour rippling across his face and neck. Oh no, not me! I've got enough on my hands running one small kingdom. Why would I want your great bloated empire too?

      Travig eyed him with amused indulgence. That's why I trust you, young man, because you are the laziest king among the Iffot Onni. Rogar laughed and so did Travig. The old king's expression became more serious but still kindly. You are also the wisest. If only I had known enough to enjoy what I had when I was your age, I'd have saved myself a lifetime of struggle and intrigue. He signalled him to share the water, a symbolic gesture of comradeship. Your father was also wise. Smartest damn iffot I ever knew. I think you have his brains as well as his looks. I wish my own sons... He trailed off. Travig had had two sons but both had died in a bungled assassination attempt fifty years ago. The king had not had the heart to have more children. Instead, a clone was being groomed to continue the line. Travig understood the young copy of himself was doing well, being raised in a noble family in ignorance of his parentage. His wife and three of his five daughters had died along with his sons and Travig had never remarried.

      Sensitive to the old man's melancholy, Rogar tried to lighten the mood. Just so long as you don't go and declare me as your heir! he laughed. Oh no, I forgot. You're trying to get rid of me by sending me to be shot at by the rebels.

      Travig flushed the equivalent of a grin. Impudent boys should all be lined up and shot, he growled. He waved a dismissive hand. You'll have them all in chains within the week, I'm sure. Sixty-three ships or not. Errig Harragar is a ranting fool. It's just a pity so many of our young nobles listen to his nonsense.

      Errig speaks a lot of sense and you know it cousin, Rogar said, boldly, and Travig looked at him sharply. Much of what he says is true. Much of what goes on among the Iffot Onni is unworthy of us.

      What? Travig's query was more of a warning than a question.

      Oh, don't worry, cousin. I'm not about to join the rebels. I believe we can fix our problems through enlightenment and honourable dealing. We don't need a revolution. No-one needs to be strung up in the streets.

      Travig eyed him carefully. We can't afford to show any weakness at a time like this, Rogar. Even the kind of idealistic nonsense you write about freeing the slaves and government through parliaments of commoners can be dangerous. Rogar let his surprise show. Travig waved it away. Oh I know the rubbish you've been spouting. What kind of king would I be if I didn't have spies even in the court of Emion? I know you are a good man. I know your worst fault is a sentimental concern for your subjects. But it is easy to be misunderstood in times like this. It is easy to imagine that my brother-in-law, who does not have the benefit of knowing your family so well, might misinterpret your Utopian maunderings as sedition and incitement to treason.

      Rogar was shocked. Cousin! You know I am loyal to the Iffot Onni. You know I would never do anything to harm the High King or... well... anybody! I believe in gradual, managed change, improvements to our society that would make it a better place for everyone. No-one likes what we have become. No-one likes the corruption and politicking that saps our strength and dissipates our best efforts at improving things. All I'm saying is that it is up to us, the royal houses of the Iffot Onni, to seize the initiative and make change happen before... well... before someone like Errig tries to do it and unleashes revolution and chaos in our realms.

      Travig watched him steadily. You are a young man, Rogar, and a good man. You will no doubt be a good king to your people. But you will learn, as we all do, that it is not so easy to make a difference.

      Rogar saw Travig's eyes glaze over, the look of an old man remembering different times. Rogar's father had told tales of a hundred years ago when he and Travig had been young bloods. They would sing and drink into the small hours and vow in their cups that they would change the galaxy.

      Travig sighed. Rogar, you are right, of course. No-one likes what the Iffot Onni have become. In the end, though, power can not just be tossed aside. In the end, when things have grown insupportable, holding onto power is the only thing that matters; for yourself, for your family, for the slim chance of a better future. He looked again at Rogar, perhaps seeing in him the image of his late father. Rogar wondered if the old man saw the concern in the eyes that looked back at him. Just put down this bloody rebellion for me, Rogar, and you can go back to your quiet little kingdom and, who knows, perhaps you will find a way to make a difference where the rest of us have failed.

      Chapter 3

      All right, everybody, we're good to go, declared Ashton but even as he spoke, he saw the displays jump. Everything changed in an instant, position, engine status, fuel, sensors, even the bloody clocks! What the hell just happened? he shouted, his heart thumping as he tried to make sense of all his instruments suddenly going wild. Had something happened to the IR drive? No alarms. He suddenly realised that no alarms were sounding. It gave him a momentary hope. Maybe they weren’t about to die.

      Captain. It was the ship’s artificial mind. He’d never been so pleased to hear its calm, unruffled voice. The AM, understanding the captain’s shocked reaction, indeed, having anticipated it many months ago, hurried to reassure him. We are completely safe. You and the crew have been unconscious for some time. The ship has been travelling during this time.

      Travelling? Ashton couldn’t make much sense of it. Nevertheless, he was beginning to accept that they were in no immediate danger.

      They had left New Australia just minutes ago, it seemed. He had been doing his pre-stunnel checks, preparing the crew for the switch to space-time tunnelling, everything had been fine. Now the ship was telling him they had been unconscious? He put up displays to show the status of the life-support systems. Had there been a malfunction? A gas imbalance? The systems looked nominal. No poisons, no leaks. How long had they been unconscious? They might have drifted a long way from New Australia by now. He checked the clock. It was four PM ship's time. It had been just eight AM when they set off! Have we been out for eight hours? he demanded of the ship, barely able to believe such a thing.

      The ship's response was, as ever, calm and authoritative. You have been unconscious for eleven months, one week, four days, seven hours and fifty-six minutes.

      Captain? The worried voice on the ship's comm was Geoffrey Cejka and Ashton suddenly remembered that the rest of the crew would also be waking up to find that things were not quite as they should be.

      Geoff, can you give me a minute? Something odd seems to have happened.

      Captain, have you looked out the window yet?

      -oOo-

      Pinky was scared. Her mistress was dead and she was lost and alone. Of course, as soon as she was harmed, her mistress's body would have automatically signalled the palace guards, so help should be on its way. Yet Pinky did not think she could rely on help arriving. Not the way things were.

      Dismally, she sat beside her mistress and licked at her own long, soft fur. Why did the great lollops have to travel about all the time? If her mistress had stayed at home on Peras, they wouldn’t be in this awful place. What was the point of going abroad all the time? It was just nuisance and disruption, and the commercial flight from Peras had been so uncomfortable. And now this!

      All around her was the sound of battle. Smoke poured from several buildings, filling the air with a stench that made her retch. Everywhere the big, lumbering iffot ran about, some in panic and fear, others, wielding weapons, with determination and purpose. Her mistress had been one of the ones running in panic – until an unseen energy bolt had blown a hole in the woman's body big enough to push your arm through. Like a giant foam toy, her mistress had collapsed in that horrible way dead iffot had, all structural integrity gone. Now she lay like a pile of blubber, barely recognisable. And she wasn’t the only one. Dead iffot littered the dockside in every direction. Luckily the great lumps only seemed interested in shooting one another. They ignored little Pinky as she sat and shivered beside her former mistress.

      She thought about finding shelter, perhaps hiding inside one of the buildings, but she didn't want to be picked up as a stray and thrown in a pound. At least if she stayed with her mistress, the Iffot Onni authorities would look after her as part of the deceased woman's property and pass her on to a relative with the rest of the estate.

      But the longer she waited, the more obvious it became that no-one was going to come for her, that the very authorities she was waiting for were the ones being chased down and killed all around her. She hunched into a ball, miserable and frightened. Maybe the brutes would start shooting Nicoisi once they’d shot all the King's guards. They sometimes did horrible things to her people, teasing them and torturing them for their amusement. The only protection against their viciousness was ownership, and there was her mistress, lying dead in the street like a bag of offal!

      Prompted by fear, she began to move, slowly and carefully at first, her head weaving on its long neck, as she measured distances and positions. Then she ran, a blur of long, delicate limbs, her fine fur streaming, heading for the nearest building – the arrivals lounge they had so recently left.

      -oOo-

      Ambassador Inge Hartmann was astonished. We're already there?

      The rest of the crew was confused too as Captain Ashton explained to them what little he knew of their situation. The whole crew was assembled in the refectory; Ashton and his two engineers, Herman Steiner and Mauro Bellotti; Geoffrey Cejka, their alien expert; Susan Iverson, the physicist; Henri Petain, the anthropologist; Special Agent Wu Kwang Fu, their only remaining military man; their two 'prisoners', Stephen Logan and Kitty Hamilton; the robot, BS; and, of course, the ambassador.

      I know it seems like it was just ten minutes ago. Ashton shook his head. But we really have been unconscious for almost a year. During that time, the IR drive has been used and we have travelled a thousand light years.

      To Adanor? asked Susan.

      See for yourself. Ashton brought up the forward view and made it public. There in all its magnificence and beauty was the M27 nebula.

      It was Akiro, Susan informed them. We were having a little chat just before it happened. She asked if she could help us.

      Let me guess, drawled Logan. You said yes.

      Susan gave him a taut smile and addressed Ashton. What she did was impossible, as usual, but it doesn’t seemed to have harmed us at all, except to have deprived me of Mr. Logan’s company for so long.

      Does the Admiral know about this? the ambassador wanted to know.

      I’ll talk to SolSystem right after this meeting, said Ashton. They won’t have noticed a thing, since we were expected to be out of communication while the IR drive was on. Assuming the comms will still work at this distance, eh Professor?

      Susan smiled indulgently. Pointedly, she said, "It seems like no time at all since I reassured you and the UN bigwigs on this very subject.

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