Lost In Translation (36 page)

“Translators Bircher and Jarrikk, please report to the bridge.”

Intercepted? Boarded? How . . . ?

Still groggy from being woken from the deepest pit of sleep, Kathryn stumbled to the door and stepped into the corridor just as Jarrikk approached. He seized her hand.

Kitillikk must have heard about the priests' coup on S'sinndikk—put scoutships along her back trail,
he telepathed.

They raced to the bridge, or raced as fast as Jarrikk could when his clawed feet skittered and slipped with every step on the hard, slick floors.
At least the Hunters won't be able to move any faster,
Kathryn thought.

They sensed Captain Hall's fury long before they reached the bridge door. “I told you this was madness, Translators!” he snarled as they came into the red-lit bridge, filled with the screaming alarms of outraged systems. “My ship is in the grip of S'sinn Hunters and soon will be dragged into the heart of the Hunter Fleet—if they don't just destroy us out of hand!”

Kathryn's annoyance and Jarrikk's peaked in perfect synchronicity. “Captain, shut up,” she snapped for both of them. “Communications officer!”

He looked up, blue eyes wide in his pale white face. “Translator?”

“Are we in range to broadcast to the Hunter Fleet?”

“Most of it, Translator.”

“Call up the recording of the High Priest's announcement of Kitillikk's treachery. Broadcast it.”

“Belay that order!” Captain Hall snapped. “Send that, Translators, and you sentence all of us to death!”

“Fail to send it and you sentence the entire Commonwealth to death—and the Guild you serve with it! Communications officer—”

The young man looked from her to the captain. “Captain?”

The captain stared at Kathryn defiantly, but she could feel his anger slipping away as the truth of her words sank in, and finally he dropped his gaze. “I'm sorry, Translators. Communications officer—”

A bolt of eye-searing red light snapped across the bridge, slashing across the young officer's spine. He jerked crazily up from the smoking ruin of his chair, like a marionette with tangled strings, then crumpled and fell, smearing dark blood across the communications panel. The smell of burned cloth and flesh drifted with a cloud of blue smoke across the bridge.

Through her link with Jarrikk, Kathryn understood the snarling words of the black-furred S'sinn who blocked the door into the bridge: “I take this ship in the name of the Hunter of Worlds, and Supreme Flight Leader Kitillikk!”

 

Kitillikk bared her teeth with such savage delight upon receipt of the news that the young officer who had brought it to her took a step back. “Fetch Ukkarr,” she said to him, and he vanished as though pursued by the Hunter Himself.

She put the VR helmet on again and studied the sensor readings transmitted via dimspace from the last probe she had sent ahead on the final jump to Kikks' sarr. The human Fleet was there, no doubt about it, behind Kikks'sarr, though the probe had been found and destroyed before it could transmit details of its size and disposition. No matter; when she emerged above Kikks'sarr the furless cowards would have to round the planet to face her or she would slag their cities to the ground while they dithered on the dark side.

One way or another, she thought, battle would be joined by the time Kikks'sarr completed another rotation. And now she learned that the last feeble attempt by the Guild of Translators had been foiled, and that at last she had the traitorous Jarrikk and the interfering Kathryn Bircher in her claws.

Was it any wonder she showed her teeth so widely?

Ukkarr entered the bridge. “Yes, Your Altitude?”

“You've heard?”

“Yes, Your Altitude.”

“Please take my place on the bridge. I wish to meet our new guests in person.”

“Yes, Your Altitude.”

Just because she was in a playful mood, and because Ukkarr was always so solemn, she trailed the edge of her wing sensuously over his as she passed him, and, feeling him tremble at her touch, was filled suddenly with a powerful lust. “Later,” she whispered, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Once off the bridge she launched herself into the zero-G tunnel, savoring the brief moment of flight that took her to the observation chamber overlooking the cavernous main landing bay, where the flagship's four scoutships docked when they weren't on patrol. As she watched, the scoutship that had captured the
Unity
floated into the bay and stopped with a small puff of glittering silvery fuel from its maneuvering rockets. It settled slowly to the deck as the artificial gravity generators beneath the floor of the bay, turned off for docking, eased back up to full power.

An indicator lit on a communications panel set in the wall. Kitillikk touched a key. “This is Supreme Flight Leader Kitillikk,” she said. “Congratulations, Captain. How are your prisoners?”

“Silent,” the scoutship captain said. “Standing here holding hands like thunder-spooked younglings.”

“Perhaps they'll speak to me,” Kitillikk said. “Please have them escorted to the security level as soon as pressure has equalized in the docking bay. Tell them I'll meet them there. I'm sure that will cheer them up.”

“I'm sure it will, Supreme Flight Leader.”

“Kitillikk out.”

She broke the connection, and called up a view on the vidscreen of the
Unity,
connected to
Bloodfeud
by flimsy umbilicals, docking tubes—and the computer-enslavement of her drive system. Kitillikk rather thought the Guildship would break apart under the stresses of combat. Until then, though, she made a fine shield for that side of
Bloodfeud.
Kitillikk showed her teeth again. Especially if the humans recognized
Unity
as one of their own and realized she was still crewed . . .

Appreciating the irony of a human-crewed Guildship sowing disorder in the ranks of the human fleet, she made her way to Security.

 

Jarrikk stood stolidly with Kathryn, clasping her hand, though neither had thoughts to share at that moment. They could only draw strength from each other—what little strength they had to share—and try to ignore the hatred and contempt inside the heads of their two armed guards, one just inside and one outside the locked door of their stark metal cell.
Just like Rikkarrikk,
Jarrikk thought.

Kathryn,
he telepathed.
These two guards. Just like Rikkarrikk—

I know. They hate us,
she replied.

Her hand tightened on his.
But these are Hunters. And they're loyal to Kitillikk—

Are you trying to change my mind, too?
Suddenly she jerked her hand free and backed away from him. The guard's firelance snapped down and he motioned her back toward Jarrikk. She returned, but she wouldn't touch him.

And then the door opened and Kitillikk entered.

Her self-satisfaction preceded her like an honor guard. “Jarrikk,” she almost purred. “My old pupil. How pleasant to see you again.”

“How pleasant to have me in your talons, you mean,” he growled back. “Don't try to lie to a Translator, Flight Leader. You want both of us dead. Your only concern is orchestrating our executions to achieve the maximum effect.”

“That doesn't mean I'm not happy to see you, Jarrikk. Quite the opposite.” She looked at Kathryn. “And your human friend. Parents killed on Luckystrike, I understand, during the First War. How appropriate that she should join them to start the second and final one.” She showed her teeth. “And you're a little behind the times, Jarrikk. My title is Supreme Flight Leader.”

“Akkanndikk doesn't seem to think so.”

The bared teeth went from a grin to snarl. “Akkan ndikk is probably dead by now.”

“The priests have renounced your title.” Jarrikk said it loudly, hoping for a reaction from the guard at the door, but he seemed not to hear, or care.

“If the priests had really renounced me, they would have sent a scoutship after the Fleet to call it back,” Kitillikk said. She spread her wings, showing a new insignia emblazoned on the leather: a spiral crossed with a lightning bolt, the emblem reserved for the Supreme Flight Leader. “They know the S'sinn people are on my side. They know the people cry out for the blood of the humans, for the shame of the First War to be wiped away. They know the S'sinn are no longer content to be kept down by the Commonwealth, to be treated as second-class primitives by the decadent older races. They have a law to uphold on S'sinndikk, and so they have said the words to renounce me, and they set you free, but their hearts are not in it. Their hearts, and the hearts of all the S'sinn, belong to me.” She snapped her wings together, the blast of air ruffling Jarrikk's fur and driving Kathryn back a stumbling step.

“Brave words. But if they're true, why don't you tell the Fleet yourself what has happened on S'sinndikk?”

“I have no wish to confuse my Hunters on the eve of battle. When the victory is mine, rest assured, they will hear all.” Teeth again. “Perhaps I will tell them at your trial, before you are executed for treachery and spying along with your human mate.” Kitillikk reached out and ran the point of a claw along Kathryn's chin; Kathryn flinched but held her ground. “An astonishing perversion, that; though for a Flightless One so bereft of honor he refuses to take the Dagger of the Hunter, I suppose no sewer is too foul to crawl in.”

Jarrikk tried hard to quell the slow, seething fire of hatred kindled in his hearts. Violent emotions mud-died the mind, and he needed a mind as clear and sharp as a dagger of ice. He reached out and took Kathryn's hand, and this time she grasped it eagerly, her revulsion at Kitillikk's touch threatening to spill over into his mind and derail his concentration. He had to keep Kitillikk there, keep her talking, and at the same time convince Kathryn to—

But the opportunity passed as a klaxon sounded, a harsh blatting noise repeated over and over. Elation rushed over Jarrikk and it took a moment to recognize it not as his own, but Kitillikk's.

“Final jump,” she said. “Battle begins!” She strode to the door; paused there. “When I return, the S'sinn will be able to hold their heads high for the first time since the humans slaughtered your youngflight, Jarrikk. I will expect your gratitude.” The door slid shut, and the guard faced them again, firelance held lightly across his chest.

Kathryn's mind roiled with confusion, and she pulled her hand free of Jarrikk's once more. She understood what Jarrikk wanted her to do, what she supposed they must do, but it appalled her. To take the link that had always provided her with such joy, which had filled the aching wound of bondcut when she was a girl, which had given her family and friends and now, more than either, Jarrikk—the thought of taking that link and turning it into a weapon almost physically sickened her. It was exactly the kind of thing she was afraid the Guild would use this gift for, if they could duplicate it: realpolitik, wasn't that the old Earth term for it? Do whatever must be done to achieve the desired ends.

Such thinking had a long and dishonorable history among humans, from the firebombing of Dresden to the defoliation of Vietnam to the decompression of the Jacobian far-side dome. Maybe sometimes the ends did justify the means—but you still had to live with the consequences, with the dead children and the cancer-ridden veterans and the Lunar Rebellion. Could she live with the consequences of using the gift she and Jarrikk shared in such a fashion?

Could she live with the consequences if she didn't?

He looked at her steadily, his mind filled with understanding and pity but also a hint of desperation. The guard watched them both, his mind filled with contempt, disgust, and hatred. And somewhere beyond the door Kitillikk hurried to give the orders to attack the fleet from Earth and doom the Commonwealth.

She'd chosen the hard path once before to prevent war. This path seemed harder yet: but she reached out and took Jarrikk's hand.

He flooded her with a momentary surge of gratitude, though it failed to warm the lump of ice that seemed to have formed in the pit of her stomach.
We must change our guard's mind about us,
he telepathed.
Then we must convince him to take us to communications. We must get the truth out to Kitillikk's fleet.

Will that stop them?
she wondered, though the real question, hidden in the still-private depths of her mind at this level of linkage, was,
Is it worth it?