Transformation Space (17 page)

‘Which first, then?’

‘We split it. You go to the studium, I look for an AiV.’

Jo-Jo stared at her, not sure what to make of her plan. What did Randall really have in mind? Was she planning to find some
transport and fly out to the islands, leaving him behind?

‘Get that paranoid look off your face.’ She slapped him on the back. ‘If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have done it
long before this. We need an edge on the Saqr. Think about it. If we find the survivors, what we gonna do? Hide out with them
until we all get old and die? We want to get the hell outta here or, failing that, we try and take the place back.’

She handed the ’scope over to Catchut. He was using his leg more, but a fever beset him every evening, as though something
foreign from the Extro ship had
entered his body, through the broken skin on his ankle. ‘And I’m thinkin’ that there won’t be any help coming for us. OLOSS
looks like it’s got too many of its own damned problems.’

‘What about Farr?’

Randall rubbed her eyes with yellow-stained fingers. Their skin was still carrying the taint of the Extro fluid they’d been
trapped in. ‘Carnage will do what suits him. And that can change quicker than you and I can spit.’

Jo-Jo grunted. Randall was right on that score. Farr could be counted on not to be counted on, especially if Mira Fedor had
disappeared. He’d no longer be tied to their agreement – if Farr could be tied to anything.

Randall was also right about the Saqr. If they managed to find any survivors, then they needed to have a plan. Like the mercenary,
Jo-Jo had no intention of seeing out his days on this lonely scorching dust bowl.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

She almost grinned. Her mouth moved in that configuration, but he hadn’t seen any real humour in Randall since they’d escaped
the
Medium
. The Extro experience had changed something in her, hardened even her sense of humour.

‘You’re not too stupid, for a mappie,’ she said.

Jo-Jo made a throaty noise at the derogatory term for astro-surveyors. ‘Mineral scout,’ he corrected. ‘We get our hands dirty.’

The tension eased between them a little, and they were back in a place of understanding. Jo-Jo knew it could – would – change
at any moment, but he let himself relax. Crux, they’d been through enough
together, and Randall owed him. He didn’t exactly trust her, but he knew she wouldn’t forget what he’d done.

The three walked back to the galley and ate the last of some rehydrated butter beans. Then, by unspoken consensus, they took
up seats at the back of one of the bigger offices that faced out onto the plains, to watch the sun go down.

‘For a merciless lump of rock and sand, it’s a shittin’ pretty sunset,’ Catchut proffered.

Jo-Jo and Randall stared at him. For Catchut, that was close to poetry.

‘Yeah. It also means we should be heading out,’ said Randall. She stood up and stretched, overly lean but still taut. Her
hair had grown and had begun to curl around her shoulders. In the weeks that Jo-Jo had known her, he’d never once thought
of her as a woman. He didn’t know what that meant. It just
was
.

‘Keep the home fires burning, Cat,’ said Randall.

‘Don’t think so, Capo. Less you want to trash the whole mountainside.’

She nodded. ‘Damn good place to breathe decent air. Damn terrible place for fires.’ She hooked a water bottle onto her belt
and beckoned Jo-Jo. ‘Remember that.’

He crawled behind Randall until they reached the rocky scree they’d seen through the ’scope. From there, she split off from
him and headed down, towards a modest villa that appeared only partly damaged by fire.

Jo-Jo continued upward in a straightish line, his sights set on the huge shadow of the Araldis studium. The
gardens were so immense that he reached them a long while before the buildings.

Before the invasion, Randall said that they had been protected by a climate bubble. Since the Saqr landed, the bubble had
been disengaged, and the once-lush gardens were now a series of dead tree trunks and dusty grottos. The water had evaporated
from the recycled fountains, and the lawns had returned to their natural state: slippery screes of rock.

He threaded between the fountains, using them as cover to watch for Saqr. Their observations through the ’scope had told them
that the creatures seemed to randomly move among the Latino ruins. Not organised patrols, Randall said. There was little enough
to do but forage on a planet like this, once the first ready food source was gone. Which meant that any Saqr they encountered
would be hungry.

They’d timed their foray to travel before the moons had risen, and it was hard to see any detail on the facade of the main
building. There was a portico, he thought, judging by the columns, which meant inside stairs or lifts.

The last stretch of garden seemed to be open space, perhaps even a games pad or informal gathering area. The ’scope didn’t
reveal any boulders or ditches, so he risked jogging toward the portico, making it to the first arch without incident.

The exertion had him breathing hard though, sweating copiously onto his fellalo’s insulation. He stopped to catch his breath,
and then felt his way along the wall until he reached a set of narrow stairs. A servants’ entry, perhaps. He stepped onto
them, and a dull light flared, sending him jumping back.

Sweat poured from him. He could feel it running down his arms and legs as the robe worked to redistribute it and cool his
skin. If the Saqr saw the light, they’d be here soon. He turned and hurried back along the portico to the huge main doors.
They were slightly ajar and he cursed himself for not trying them first.

He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. The biggest staircase he’d ever seen dominated the circular entrance
hall, and grand carved doorways led away from it. He walked along them, trying to decipher the signs.

BIBLIOTECA
. Randall had suggested he try the library ports to access the data banks. ‘There might be some life in them yet, if they’re
not damaged. Most things here are solar powered,’ she’d said.

He pushed the door open and found himself in a chamber lit by the dull glow of emergency lights running on their last dregs.
It was filled with rows and rows of seats, divided down the middle by an inactive escalator.

He sat down at one and flashed the ’scope’s lamp for long enough to see the array of interface options. He chose the simplest
audio download, hoping it still worked.

Slotting the audio pad over his ear, he waited, imagining Mira Fedor here, engrossed in learning from the studium interface.
He felt strangely exhilarated, knowing she’d sat in one of these seats, maybe even this one.

The overwhelming and ridiculous nature of his sentiment for her had begun to fade; perhaps it had only been a moment of lust
for one of the most decent and
refined women he’d met in his life. And yet an equally powerful yearning had replaced it, a yearning for something he would
never have. Maybe those moments in space, without air, had done more than scare him. Maybe he’d lost part of his mind, then.

Come on
, he urged the library,
talk to me
.

‘Choose from the menu,’ crackled a faint voice in his ear.

Jo-Jo’s heart lurched. ‘Alien genera,’ he said after listening. ‘Saqr.’

He asked for the summary overview.

Tardigrada giantus
… relative of arthropods … segmented bodies … eight legs …

Nothing new there. ‘Dietary needs. Reproduction. Special qualities,’ he asked.

Polyextremophiles that are known to survive in extreme environments.

‘More detail.’

‘Tardigrada giantus
can withstand maximum temperatures of 151°C (424 K), through to minimums of -200°C (70 K). Dehydration:
Tardigrada giantus
have been shown to survive for decades in a dry state. Radiation:
Tardigrada giantus
can withstand median lethal doses of 5,000 Gy (gamma-rays) and 6,200 Gy (heavy ions) in hydrated animals. Pressure range:
vacuum through to more than 1,200 times Cerulean atmospheric pressure. Environmental toxins—’

‘End.’

The audio stopped.

If humanesques could do even half of that … ‘Main menu.’

The response was sluggish.

‘Visual map of Araldis,’ he requested.

He studied the dull image on the film that unfolded from his armrest. ‘Southern sector. Islands.’

Thousands of tiny dots scattered across the screen. The survivors could be on any one of them. Then again, maybe not, he thought.
Some of the islands were little more than dots of sand with scant cover, and the surviving population would need shade and
fresh water.

This time Jo-Jo set some search parameters. The library took so long to respond that he became fidgety, thinking at every
breath that he could hear the Saqr.

It wasn’t until he was standing up preparing to leave that the search result flashed onto the screen. Only four islands fit
the criteria he’d set. Two lay close to the southern axis, too far for the survivors to have reached on yachts or small vessels.
The others were across the open water of the Galgos Strait, a dangerous crossing but possible.

The name Galgos scratched at his memory. Mira Fedor had mentioned it, he was sure. The two potential islands were large and
according to the map key harboured fresh water. Only one, though, was vegetated. It also had species of fauna not found on
the mainland.

He committed the map coordinates to memory and told the search to clear and close. As he made his way from desk to door, a
scraping noise drifted across the quiet.

He abruptly changed direction, seeking another exit. Though he could see nothing, the sweet Saqr scent was unmistakable. Something
fierce and cold gripped
his stomach. How many were out there? Did they know he was here?

He found a narrow door and opened it, stepping through and flattening his body along the wall on the other side. A passage
led him to a room that stank of spilled chemicals. More dim emergency lights revealed a number of well-worn com-cast modules,
and desk-films languishing on real wood tables. He breathed in air thick with dust. The environmentals were barely functioning
in here; heat pooled.

He made his away across the room, looking for another door, but something made him stop and look more closely at one of the
com-soles. It was an old-fashioned desk variety, probably used by students who needed to interact with the Vreal studium,
or other off-world academics. Mira had mentioned how delayed their farcast signals were, how inadequate – they’d only heard
of the Stain Wars after they’d ended. Perhaps if he could get one working, they could pick up signals from OLOSS craft?

He felt along the bottom edge of the com-sole and unclipped it from its station. It was light enough, but awkward. How could
he get it back without dropping it? He needed his hands free to climb down the more slippery rocks.

A wash of sweet scent wafted in, drowning the smell of the spilled chemicals. The Saqr were close again – outside the room,
perhaps. Taking the com-sole, he dropped to the floor and crawled over to the centre of the room, assessing his options.

A rush of air blew on his face as the door opened, and the sweet scent grew chokingly strong. He stifled the
instinct to gag and gripped the com-sole tightly. There must be another door, somewhere he could run to.

Scraping sounds on the far side. He held his breath as the noise moved around the perimeter of the room and back. Hard to
tell if it was one or more.
Don’t look. Don’t move at all.

Silence. Then another shift of air. The door closed.

He sat for a long time, clutching the com-sole, aware only of the sound of his heartbeat and the wetness between his legs.
Jo-Jo Rasterovich hadn’t pissed his pants since he was a kid, waiting for his mum to get through an evening with her latest
beau. He’d been sitting outside the condo door, in the corridor, playing with a set of chrome jacks. He was four years old.

The loss of control didn’t make him proud, but he wasn’t ashamed either. He’d seen what the Saqr could do. He was no hero.

When he could make his legs function, he got up and quietly searched the room for something to carry the com-sole. It was
curiously bereft of incidentals, as if someone had swept through and tidied just before the Saqr invaded.

Instead, he found another door and exited, stealing deeper into the studium until he came upon the kitchens.

Here, things were different. Every pot, pan and sealed storage container had been rifled. Even the rows of cookers down the
centre of the room had been damaged, smashed with the force of an axe or hammer.

That didn’t make sense, but he didn’t stop to examine them. Instead, he searched among the debris until he found a length
of kitchen tie that had once
hung meat, and threaded it through a notch on the com-sole. Tying the ends together, he looped it over his shoulder.

The kitchen, he knew, would have a service entry for food loading. Leaving the studium from the rear meant a much longer walk
back, but it would lessen his chances – he hoped – of running into Saqr.

He found the entrance to the service bay at the bottom of the extensive pantry, a roller door with a mechanism to handle inter-gal
freight cartons. Alongside the door was a hatch, larger than the average Balol. He pressed spots around the roller pad, and
the hatch sprang open. He stepped through quickly. It took him moments to adjust to the flooding light outside.

He looked for the moons, but neither had risen. The night skies of Araldis, though, were filled with a flotilla of tiny star-bright
objects.

Jo-Jo blinked a few times to see if they went away, but the objects remained above him, cruising in a serene orbit. Instinct
told him to get back to Randall and Catchut quickly. If they could get the com-sole working, maybe they could find out what
the Crux was happening up there.

Even this remote arm of the landing port teemed with activity. Mira threaded her way through queues and past kiosks selling
credit exchange and transport vouchers. Ahead, she saw the crowds streaming onto four different conveyors. The signs hanging
above them confused her, so she stopped at a seedy kaffe, which served pastries swimming in liquid and oversized cups of dark
mokka, and asked directions.