This Alien Shore (3 page)

Undetected, unpursued, the tiny pod fled Earth's crowded skies, and headed toward the up-and-out.

There are those who would pay a fortune to discover how our outpilots navigate the ainniq, and many have devoted their lives to trying to guess the Guild's secrets. Among such investigators there are two conflicting schools of thought:

Both are correct, of course.

 

Not that this will help them.

GUILDMISTRESS ALMA SARAJEVO
“A Legacy of Silence”: Keynote address to the 274
^th
Guildmaster Conclave;
Tiananmen
Station

...
M
AYDAY ... MAYDAY...

The station was so close now that its outer surface filled the screen, the docking port a gaping black cavern just ahead of them. The inpilot trembled as he balanced controlling icons in his head, struggling to bring the freighter in line with the grappling braces. “Approach verified,” he said at last. A small triumph. Three red lights on the console before him were blinking wildly, indicating systems that had gone down, but for now it looked like he had managed to work around them. Thank God for that, the freighter's captain mused. Otherwise they might as well kiss all their precious cargo good-bye, and their asses along with it.

“Clearance is ... acceptable.” The beads of sweat on the inpilot's brow had merged into a tiny rivulet that trickled down the side of his face even as the freighter slid into dock. Too fast, too close; the captain could almost hear the screech of surfaces grinding together as the braces passed mere inches to port. There were four lights blinking now on the control panel, and according to the readout the damage for all those systems originated in the outbridge. If he turned up the sound on his sensor relay he could hear noises from within that chamber, banging and screaming and a high keening sound that might or might not be of human origin. His outpilot had gone off the deep end, that was sure. The only question was how much damage he had done in this fit of his, and how much more he would get a chance to do before his Guild got him under control.

... GUILD EMERGENCY IN DOCKING BAY 306 YELLOW, SUPPORT TEAM REPORT IMMEDIATELY... REPEAT, GUILD EMERGENCY IN DOCKING BAY 306 YELLOW...

“We're in.” The inpilot leaned back with a sigh as the braces took hold; the freighter shuddered briefly as they pulled it into proper alignment with the docking seals, then was still again. He tipped back his headset, letting the cool air inside the ship dry the sweat that had pooled beneath it. “Thank God.”

“Yeah.” There were five lights blinking now, and God help that fucking Guild bastard if any of that meant there was permanent damage to his ship. “You feed 'em the protocols. I'm going to go find out what the hell happened down there.”

... MAYDAY... MAYDAY...

The captain could hear the seals hissing as he exited the inbridge, ship's pressure stabilizing to match that of the docking ring. At least that system was working, he thought grimly. At least his twenty-three pods of valuable merchandise had made it here in the right number of pieces, albeit they trailed out behind their lead ship like a snake with muscle spasms. It could be worse, he told himself. It could be a thousand times worse.

He also thought:
I'll kill the Guild bastard.

The door to the outbridge was sealed, of course; Guild pilots liked their privacy. Through it, he could hear some kind of banging, and that strange, high-pitched keening. He fumbled with the code panel set to one side, feeding it an override combination. Nothing happened.
Damn!
He tried another code, a secret priority combination that should have been able to override anything on the ship. Still the damned door didn't budge. Whatever that bastard Guildsman was up to, he had locked himself in but good.

In the distance he could hear the main air lock opening now, sharp voices asking directions, footsteps approaching. Guildsmen appeared, two of them, and their expressions were anything but sympathetic. “He's locked himself inside,” the captain said as they approached, trying to sound belligerent rather than frightened. These two men, with their painted faces and black Guild robes, could make or break him at will. If they decided he had mistreated his outpilot, or otherwise broken Guild contract, there'd be no more transnodal shipping contracts for him. They'd see to it that he was stuck at this fucking station till hell froze over, if not longer. “Right after we pulled in, he seemed to have some kind of fit—” One of the men pushed him roughly aside and pulled out an instrument from the folds of his robe. “He's damaged ship systems—”

The instrument flared; the control panel by the door burst into sparks and smoke. “Wait a fucking minute, that's
my
ship—” The Guildsman turned to the door, adjusted his instrument, and fired again. The solid surface began to shiver and melt and give way, until at last there was an opening large enough for a man's arm to thrust through. The Guildsman did just that. Smoke rose from his black sleeve where it rested against the door as he fumbled with something beyond that barrier, or perhaps inside it—and then it moved suddenly and he pulled back, just in time for it to open without yanking his arm off.

Inside the outbridge there was blood, blood everywhere, on the floor and the control module and even splattered across the ceiling. In the midst of it all a naked man thrashed and moaned, and it was clear now that the strange sounds picked up by the sensors had indeed come from him. He was human in shape, the captain noted, fury giving way to fascination for one brief instant. There were those who claimed that the Guerans were Variants in body as well as mind, but it sure didn't look like that with this guy. As the two Guildsmen ran to their crazed comrade and struggled to get hold of him, the captain edged closer, trying to get a better view.

The man was naked, his black uniform torn open and peeled back to reveal pallid skin. His face was painted with fine black lines according to Gueran tradition, but the pattern had been so smeared with blood that there was no making out what it was. And as for the body itself ... that was covered with a network of crisscrossed mutilations, jagged tattoos and scarifications that depicted images out of nightmare, staring eyes and barbed wheels and a hand with blood pouring out of its center. There was real blood pouring from the man's left arm, where he had apparently ripped the skin open with his own nails and teeth, and as the first Guildsman pressed a trank gun to his neck, his inarticulate screaming at last became words, “It's inside me! They put it inside me!” Madly he struggled to claw at his arm again, to dig even deeper; the Guildsman tried to get hold of his wrist even as the tranquilizer hissed into his veins. “Got to get it out!” he sobbed.

And then the trank kicked in, and his struggles ceased. His reddened eyes turned upward, then closed. His flailing limbs shuddered, then lay limp and still. The nearer Guildsman looked up and saw the captain standing there; his painted countenance scowled.

“This is Guild business!” He stood and moved so fast that the stunned captain hardly saw it; a gloved hand slammed hard into his chest and sent him stumbling back into the corridor. The Guildsman returned to his duties then, as quietly and as calmly as if nothing had happened at all. For a moment the captain just stood there, stunned, fuming. They had no right. They had no goddamn right! But you didn't argue with Guildsmen. You just didn't. Not even when they blasted through a door of your freighter. Not even when their crazy pilot fucked up the controls of your ship, and God alone knew how bad the damage was or how much it would cost to repair. You just didn't argue with them, not ever.

They were carrying the wounded man now, wrapped in his torn black robe like a shroud. A clearflesh bandage had been slapped on his wound to stop the bleeding, but they'd have to cut it off later to fix the damage; right now the arm looked like so much shredded meat. The outpilot was muttering unintelligible things and now and then his body spasmed as if in some unspeakable agony, but on the whole the tranquilizer seemed to be working. Thank God for that, anyway.

The captain took a quick look inside the outbridge, darkly assessing the magnitude of the damage; then he hurried after the Guildsmen. They had been met by two more of their kind at the air lock, to whom they were handing over their bleeding charge. A number of the freighter's crewmen had gathered to watch, but none dared come too close; it wasn't unknown for the Guild to blacklist men who got in their way, so that no ship carrying them could ever hire an outpilot. A hell of a threat.

The Guildsman who had first entered the ship turned to the captain. “We'll have to go over his log to find out what happened. We'll let you know as soon as possible whether or not you've been cleared of responsibility.”

“What about my ship?”

The Guildsman glared. His kaja-pattern, sharp and predatory, made his expression five times more fierce than a mere human glare could ever be. “He brought you through the ainniq? Back into safespace?”

“Yes, but—”

“Your cargo is intact? Your people are unharmed?”

“Yes, but the damage—”

“He satisfied Guild contract.” He turned away sharply, dismissively. “The ship is your problem.”

And then he was gone. They all were gone. There was only the captain and his crew left, and a few thin drops of blood marking the path the Guildsmen had taken back to their headquarters.

“Sir?”

Shaking with rage (and with fear, though he'd never admit to the latter) he turned his attention back to his crew. “Let's get this mess cleaned up before we unload,” he said sharply. “You and you, see to the outbridge. You—” he pointed to his first mate, “—run a diagnostic and find out what the hell he did to our control system. Get me a printout and damage cost estimate within the hour.”

“Yessir.”

Damn
the Guild. Damn their arrogance, damn their greed ... damn, most of all, their power. That more than anything.

“Bastards,” he muttered.