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63.
The Siirk had killed the warriors Xumar had sent out.
They had been lying in wait, probably for a long time. Very likely they’d lain in wait in the valley even as Maryan and he made their long trek. The thought of them hiding in their valley in the days of their return sickened him. But the Siirk weren’t after Maryan and Alex or the Takkar—the Siirk were after the amulet they assumed either they or the Takkar possessed.
“Thuga!” a Siirk voice yelled full of contempt.
Arrows nicked in, cutting down the four warriors. Gun shots from Siirk muzzle-loaders boomed, and Mixic fell down mortally wounded. He turned him on his back and saw that he was already dead from a massive chest injury.
Alex saw them come running—a skirmish line of reptilian devils in their leather jerkins. He recognized Kogran, their chief now that Nizin was dead, and Omas, the overseer of the slaves they derisively named “spit people.”
A Siirk stopped to aim his rifle, and Omas angrily stopped him, berating him not to harm the magnificent ship that gleamed before them all. Alex bent over at that moment, which saved his life. Maryan ducked while arrows peppered the one remaining guard.
Xumar moved with blinding speed, grabbing the amulet from under the ship, mounting his horse, and galloping away. Several shots rang out, and Xumar’s horse fell dead under him.
Omas and Kogran shouted for the shooters to stop.
Five or six Siirk at the far end of the skirmish line fell on Xumar, beating him.
“Sii-iirk,” Kogran slavered with deep satisfaction, rubbing his belly as he stepped up to the ship. He wished he’d hug it and be fried to toast, but he wasn’t that dumb.
Maryan and Alex were surrounded by Siirk who had sheathed their weapons and merely meant to keep them from running. A heated discussion erupted between several Siirk, including Kogran. One camp apparently wanted them to touch the ship immediately, while the other wanted to wait until it was cooler. He noticed the ship had stopped steaming. After some debate, Omas brought a Little Takkar slave to the platform. Several Siirk spread-eagled the poor thing and slammed him full-bodied against the ship. He bounced off harmlessly and walked away dazed.
A big rattle of laughter and cheering rose. The Siirk waved their fists. Xumar was brought back, his wrists bound with thick rope. He had another rope around his neck, and the other end was tied securely to the waist of a burly Siirk who wore a thick leather belt studded with nail-heads. He was the biggest, meanest Siirk of the lot and he gave the rope an occasional yank that sent Xumar staggering. Xumar bled from several wounds, one on his temple, the rest on his torso. Two triangular flaps of brown, furry skin hung from his chest, revealing white muscle and bloody tissue.
“Ha! Sii-iirk,” Xumar’s captor growled with a vicious grin, running its paws over itself. This was not a subtle creature, and Alex read its intentions from the hungry way in which he regarded Xumar. The other Siirk were more fastidious about their eating habits and looked away.
Kogran motioned for Alex. Already, Omas once again had Maryan by the throat, a knife blade flashing dangerously by the delicate skin of her neck. “Geedeens,” Kogran growled. Kogran was all threats and no nonsense. “Geedeens.” he said and motioned Alex closer. Kogran shoved Alex roughly along the sleek hull of the ship. Kogran repeatedly pounded on the ship with one fist. Alex understood what Kogran wanted him to do. Dazed by the sudden turn of their fortunes, and the deaths of Mixic and the warriors, Alex tried to think clearly and couldn’t. Kogran grinned and kept the knife on Maryan’s throat. Maryan squirmed helplessly and wide-eyed. What to do? Alex wandered absently back and forth, letting his hands drift across the warm skin of the ship. “Open,” he said, “Greetings.”
Nothing happened.
The Siirk all around him were hostile and impatient. They growled at each other and snarled, exchanging rakes of their clawed hands.
Suddenly, a large square of ship’s skin changed from chrome to glassy, and a picture screen appeared. Against a dark background, a balding man in a sort of business tunic spoke soberly: “Greetings.”
“Ahhhh!” the Siirk said. “Geedeens.”
“If you are a human and understand English, please name the world’s highest mountain top. If you do not speak English, please name your language. Si non hablas Ingles, por favor...”
“Mount Everest,” Alex said.
“Thank you. Please speak the option you desire, or touch it with your hand.” The list of options, accompanied by symbols, stretched several feet, beginning with he Need Rescue. He looked for the Immediate Evacuation. He noticed options that included calling for more assistance—no, he didn’t want to bring more of these precious ships down for these beasts—and the Siirk held Maryan on the platform with a knife by her throat so that he wouldn't get any ideas about repeating the performance that had cost them Nizin.
"If you are unable to speak, press your hand against the options..."
Alex had to do something quickly, but what?
At that moment, a terrific growl went up, so loud and fierce, so desperate and powerful that it made the skin on his spine rise in gooseflesh. All eyes turned away from the ship, away from Maryan and Alex, and toward Xumar. In one move, Xumar had turned around, twisting the thongs that held him down. Xumar had pulled his Siirk jailer up on his back and trotted off. The Siirk, now looking terrified, squealed for help. Alex heard the soft rattle of wood and leather as a number of arrows found their way onto bows. That sound was followed by the rattle of several guns, and then by the twang of arrows flying loose. The Siirk rolled up his eyes and went limp, looking like a pincushion full of ordnance. Xumar trotted on on powerful legs.
Alex seized the opportunity and pressed Full Immediate Evacuation. The door slid open, unnoticed by the Siirk who remained captivated by the drama with Xumar. Alex took a step to his right and poked his index finger into the eye of the Siirk holding the knife. Kogran dropped the knife, screamed, and held his eye. Alex grabbed Maryan around the waist and they dove into the open cargo bay together.
The Siirk bellowed as they noticed this new drama. Several shots sounded, and bullets ricocheted in the cargo area. Kogran screamed for a cease-fire.
Alex yelled: "Close doors!" Omas bellowed something outside, and the bullets stopped. Just as the door was half closed, one arrow sailed in, bounced off the opposite bulkhead, and fell harmlessly to the floor. From the sound of hooves, some of the Siirk were going after Xumar. Those near the ship fell quiet in one groan of frustration.
The door winked shut, leaving Alex and Maryan in darkness. Alex smelled stale oil and dust that had not stirred in eons. The boat inside was a mix of rust, dust, and shiny surfaces. Parts of it were crumbling, while patches of skin retained their silvery flexibility.
Alex faintly heard an object hit the outside of the boat—a rock, he imagined, thrown by an angry Siirk.
At the same moment, the boat jerked free and rose. Alex’s stomach yawed, and Maryan shrieked, holding him tightly as they slid along the floor. Lights winked on, and huge panels played in full color in several places. The boat moved sickeningly without regard for dimensions or for their stomachs. The movement was fluid, quick, remorseless—yaw, pitch, and roll all at once—and Alex thought he was going to black out. They settled into a fast, steep, steady climbing motion.
A man's voice, modulated almost musically, said: "If you are unable to command, the boat will take you directly to the Emergency Receiving Medical Station, or ERMS. There, in the hospitality of the world's largest space station, you will receive a full medical assessment from professional medical staff before entering the main colony, where all your needs will be met." The voice exaggerated its pleasantness: "Have a pleasant journey."
A woman's voice cut in with similar unctuousness: "If you are able to command, please speak the ten digit official command sequence now."
Alex had no idea what she was talking about...a key to the computer that ran the boat, he supposed. "We don't know the sequence," he said.
"That is not a lexical command."
"We don't know!" he yelled.
There was a silence while it processed. "You will be taken to Emergency Receiving Dispensary ERD-151 at Rosa Parks Hospital on West 59th Orbital Stack. Please stand by."
In the ensuing silence, Maryan and he studied the boat that could become their tomb or their liberation...their fate could be seconds away, hours, days...or until the oxygen ran out.
Weak lights flickered brownly in the walls. The boat bucked a few times, making groaning noises. They clung together, scared for their lives. The seat cushions had fallen apart eons ago, leaving a brown dust that blew away and exposed age-dulled metal surfaces. In places, the floor was ankle-deep in russet powder. The air smelled dry and stale. Alex began to feel a sort of metal band around his head, and his vision grew blurry. Alex felt Maryan sobbing in his arms, and realized they were probably dying from asphyxiation.
Then, as he slipped into unconsciousness, as if falling asleep, lights came on, clean air started blowing, and an entire wall opened up into a spectacular view that picked up millions of pixels of light on one side of the steel hull and sent it to corresponding pixels on the inside surface, giving the illusion of a window. His headache faded, leaving a residual kern of unease somewhere around his brain stem. Maryan stopped sobbing and composed herself.
"My God," she said.
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