Chapter 4
- Krix'vorr -
The female continues resisting all the way to my quarters.
I would've expected exhaustion to overcome her by now. The healer reported extensive injuries, and several of her inner systems were approaching failure when I recovered her from the wreckage and healed her.
Yet every time I glance down, she's either glaring at me, clutching the fabric around herself, or studying the ship with obvious suspicion. Her determination is admirable. It is also highly inconvenient.
The Beast opens passages before us as we move through her interior.
Crew members step aside the moment they notice me, completing the proper gestures of respect before their attention shifts toward the female in my arms. Antennae flare.
Conversations stop. One distracted underling nearly walks into a wall while staring.
Even now I find myself understanding their reaction.
The female is unlike any species I've encountered.
Her features lack obvious armor, and her proportions seem almost absurdly vulnerable. Yet she crossed a minefield that could destroy ships far larger and more heavily defended than her own. The contradiction continues to occupy my thoughts. Every observation seems to raise additional questions.
"Chief Harrower," Sris signals from my shoulder as another pair of crew members pause to stare. "The crew appears distracted."
"They'll recover,” I grunt.
"Perhaps." One claw makes a doubtful motion. "Though rumors are likely already spreading."
I consider that while we continue down the corridor. Sris is probably correct. By now half the ship has likely learned that I returned carrying an unknown female. By the end of this cycle, the remaining half will have invented details that never occurred.
A junior navigator freezes when he notices us approaching. His eyes widen before he quickly bows deep. I ignore it and continue walking. The navigator's attention immediately returns to the female, his expression filled with fascination rather than alarm.
The same reaction appears throughout the ship. The female notices it as well. I can tell from the way her gaze moves between crew members, lingering on faces before returning to me. She seems puzzled by their behavior, which is understandable.
I know what she is in the most basic sense. She is an unknown alien. She is a pilot. She is female. What I don’t know is where she originated, and that question grows larger every time I examine the evidence.
Her vessel was beneath our standards. It was built, rather than grown.
Dead, rather than alive. Yet even that takes effort.
Metals must be refined. Energy systems must be manufactured.
Complex materials must be produced in enormous quantities.
Someone built that ship, and someone almost certainly built others like it.
Somewhere beyond the minefield, a civilization exists.
The thought sends a pleasant thrill through me. Years of searching. Years of pursuing fragments and rumors. Years of rivals insisting there was nothing in that direction of space. Now I am carrying proof through the corridors of my ship.
"Chief Harrower," Sris signals.
I glance toward her. “What?”
She points to my antennae. "You seem pleased."
My gaze drops to the female again. Her eyes narrow the moment she notices my attention. Apparently she interprets observation as hostility, which is an understandable conclusion given the circumstances.
I pass through another membrane. "I suppose it’s pleasing to me that the healing process worked, even with this alien."
Sris studies me for several moments while we continue walking. Then one claw rises thoughtfully. "It worked remarkably well. Arguably better with her than it would have with another of your kind. It was very quick, despite her plainly being close to death."
“She was receptive,” I say curtly.
“Extremely receptive,” Sris says. “The vreths must have worked immediately. The exact right vreths. On an alien.”
I pass through another membrane. “And it saved her life.”
Sris looks over at the alien. “It was very quick.”
I choose not to pursue that line of discussion.
Ahead, another membrane parts to reveal the passage leading toward my quarters.
The female moves in my arms. Her eyes remain alert despite her condition.
Good. Dead pilots answer no questions.
I lower the female onto the resting platform in my quarters. She immediately pulls the transparent medical sheet higher around herself and fixes me with a suspicious stare.
The reaction is understandable. If our positions were reversed, I would also be suspicious.
An underling comes running with his hands full of the items from the medical bay and places them on the floor. “This is everything it came with, Chief Harrower.”
“'She', not 'it',” I growl. “Dismissed.”
The crew member tears his gaze away from the alien and leaves.
The Beast closes the entrance membrane behind us and the sounds of the corridor fade. For the first time since recovering the female, I find myself in relative privacy.
Sris climbs down from my shoulder and lands on a nearby table, watching while I turn my attention toward the equipment that accompanied her aboard my ship. "What now, Chief Harrower?"
I study the scattered objects before answering. Sections of damaged suit plating rest beside small fragments from the wreckage. I spot tools and exotic materials and several layers of fabrics.
The female follows my gaze immediately, and the alertness in her expression tells me she understands the importance of the items every bit as well as I do.
"Now," I reply, "we learn what she brought with her."
I kneel beside the largest fragment of her suit and examine it more carefully.
The construction lacks elegance. Components appear to have been assembled separately rather than grown together, and several materials perform functions that a more advanced design would combine into a single structure.
My first impression is that the technology is crude.
The longer I study it, the less satisfying that conclusion becomes.
The suit contains dozens of manufactured substances.
Refined metals. Synthetic compounds. Ceramics.
Transparent materials capable of surviving vacuum exposure.
Every layer represents extraction, refinement, transportation, and fabrication on a significant scale.
Even inefficient technology requires infrastructure, and infrastructure requires resources.
These are clues that any junior Harrower could read.
Sris arrives beside me and places one claw against an exposed section of material. "The composition is surprisingly diverse."
"So it is."
"The manufacturing requirements appear extensive."
"Yes," I say. "Extensive."
Sris climbs onto a damaged piece from the alien vessel and taps one claw against the exposed circuitry. "Then whoever built this has substantial resources."
“Clearly.” My gaze drifts back toward the alien. She sits exactly where I left her, wrapped tightly in the fabric and watching everything with obvious caution.
I find myself wondering how many others like her exist. And how much lies beyond the darkness she came from.
Sris taps one claw against a broken piece. "The conclusion seems unavoidable."
I set the fragment down. "Which conclusion?"
"That the female knows where all this came from."
I glance at the female, finding it hard to look away from her. She remains wrapped tightly in the fabric, studying us with obvious suspicion. If she crossed the minefield herself, then she almost certainly knows something about the civilization that sent her.
“She’s not a living drone or a slave,” I ponder. “She may well be a full member of her world. She may even be of some rank. Although not the highest, or she would never be sent into that minefield. Yes, she almost certainly knows a great deal.”
"Then we should ask."
I lift up a black object that doesn’t seem to have been broken off from anything. It looks intact and self contained. "We can’t communicate."
"That problem is temporary."
I weigh the object in my hand. It’s quite light and equipped with several propellers that might allow it to move through fluids or gases. Or it's a fan of some kind.
"Perhaps." I put it back down.
Sris climbs down from the machinery and scurries across the table toward another section of the ruined suit. Her claws move over the surface while she studies its construction. "Once communication is established, the questioning should begin immediately."
I remain silent long enough for her antennae to twitch. "You disagree, Chief Harrower?"
"I disagree with the approach," I state.
The servant crab pauses and turns toward me. "What alternative would you suggest?"
I turn another section of suit plating over in my hands. "A cooperative source provides better information than a hostile one.”
Sris studies me for several moments before glancing toward the female and then back toward me. "Hostility can be corrected."
I know what she means. Among my people, the statement would barely qualify as controversial.
A civilization capable of producing interstellar vessels represents an opportunity of enormous significance.
Measured coercion would strike many Harrowers as an entirely reasonable response.
Indeed any method at all would be condoned to secure a valuable object for harvesting for the Queen.
The trouble is that I am not convinced it would produce the best results.
"A frightened prisoner lies," I say. "A cooperative witness explains."
Sris folds two claws against her shell. "And if cooperation fails?"
The question lingers while I consider it. "No. Force would waste valuable opportunities."
Sris remains thoughtful. "Her world may possess immense resources."
"It does appear that way."
"The information could be worth more than the female herself. So much more, in fact, that it would reduce her wellbeing to complete insignificance."