Farcall, chief of the scientific research team on the planet Lunga. We are returning to Lunga aboard a survey vessel. We are unarmed. Our entire complement of crew is scientists and the human named Orion. I repeat, we are unarmed and are returning to Lunga.”
Then we waited to see if the approaching Skorpis cruisers would listen to his message or shoot first and ask questions afterward.
They listened, and I could hear the sighs of relief echoing through the whole ship.
The commander of the Skorpis squadron spoke at length with Delos as the ponderous battle cruisers took up formation all around us. We headed back toward Lunga surrounded by the cruisers, a minnow being escorted by killer whales. It was almost ludicrous.
The scientists seemed tremendously relieved. Only as they gathered around me and thanked me for rescuing them from the Tsihn did I realize how much they had feared being prisoners.
“Those lizards make my blood run cold,” said one of the women. “They don’t have a shred of human decency.”
I thought of the Skorpis and their eating habits and wondered how much political expediency shaped her attitudes. Your alien enemies are inhuman; your alien allies are extraterrestrials.
And beyond them all, beyond all the human factions and the alien intelligent races locked in this interstellar war, were the Creators—descendants of the human race but evolved far beyond human form. Were there other far superior races involved, too? I wondered. Aten had spoken of the ultimate crisis as being something far more catastrophic than this “mere” war in which billions were being slaughtered and whole planets devastated.
I knew that the Old Ones existed, but they wished to play no part in the struggles that ensnared us. Might there be other races, far older, far superior to us? Was that the ultimate crisis Aten and the other Creators feared?
I had scant time to reflect on those matters. We were approaching Lunga again. Now I had to bargain for the lives of my troopers, which meant that the scientists who had just thanked me for saving them would soon be cursing me and trying to kill me.
Chapter 17
“Who are you, really?” Delos asked me.
We were alone in the cramped galley of the survey vessel, no more than an hour away from taking up orbit around Lunga. The commander of the cruiser squadron escorting us had suggested putting a Skorpis crew on board our vessel. I had refused, assuring her that we were returning peacefully to Lunga and did not need her help.
“I am Orion,” I answered as I poured myself a cup of a stimulant processed out of alkali crystals from the gleaming vat built into the bulkhead.
Delos shook his head and smiled at me. “Look, I could say that I am Delos. But that tells you nothing except what to call me.”
His eyes were inquisitive, not demanding. The smile on his bearded face was gentle.
“I see,” I replied. “You are Dr. Delos of the University of Farcall, chief of the scientific research team on the planet Lunga.”
He poured himself a mug of the steaming brew as he said, “I am also the son of Professor Leoh of Albion and the Lady Jessica, director of the Farcall Institute of Exopsychology, science laureate of the Golden Circle, and husband of Randa.”
That last piece of information surprised me. “You and Randa are married?”
“Didn’t you know?”
From the way they seemed to take the opposite position on every question, it had not occurred to me that they might be husband and wife. I was almost amused by the thought.
“Now that I’ve told you who and what I am,” Delos said, returning to his original question, “just who and what are you?”
I had to shrug. “I am Orion. A soldier.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
If I told him that I was created by a half-demented egomaniac from the far future, built to be sent on missions of murder and carnage through all the eras of space-time, he would undoubtedly think I was either insane or joking with him.
So I said, “No, there’s not much more to it than that.”
“Your parents?”
“I’m a soldier,” I repeated. “Do the soldiers of your Farcall have parents? Aren’t they cloned and raised on military preserves? Aren’t they kept apart from the rest of your society, frozen when they’re not needed, revived and given their orders and sent out to do battle for you?”
He scratched at his beard. “Well, yes, I suppose so. I really don’t know that much about the military. This field trip with the Skorpis is the closest to the war that any of us have come. Believe me,” he added fervently, “it’s been close enough for a lifetime!”
“You’ve been at war all your life, and for a couple of generations before you were born.”
“Yes, but that’s the military’s business. We’re scientists, we don’t get involved in fighting.”
“Yet you expect your military to protect you.”
“Of course. That’s what they’re for.”
I felt an unhappy sigh filling my chest. “Well then, think of me as one of those soldiers.”
He studied me a moment with those inquisitive soft brown eyes, then said, “No, Orion, that won’t wash. There’s more to you than that. I want to know what you’re hiding and why.”
“What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”
“Because the Old Ones spoke to you,” he hissed, and his eyes suddenly blazed, revealing his true feelings. “My team and I have been on Lunga for two months with no contact whatsoever, no matter how we tried to communicate with them. You come along and the Old Ones speak to you within hours of your reaching the ocean.”
I had to smile. He was jealous. “I could be lying,” I said.
“No, you’re not lying. And you’re not a simple soldier, either. Who are you, Orion? Why were you sent to Lunga?”
“I wish I knew,” I told him. I drained my mug, feeling the hot liquid burn its way down inside me, then turned and left the galley, leaving Delos standing there seething with curiosity and resentment.
Randa was still in the cockpit with one of the other scientists. I told them both to get out.
“I’ll take over the controls,” I said.
She shot me a skeptical glance. “Are you sure you can handle it? Inserting a ship into planetary orbit isn’t as easy as you may think, Orion.”
Her meaning was clear. Even the slightly tolerant smile on her lips betrayed her thoughts. I’m a scientist, she was saying, and I can understand how to pilot a survey vessel by studying its control panel and calling for instructions from the ship’s computer. You’re a soldier, you can’t be expected to know anything or to do anything you haven’t been specifically trained for.
I reached down and grasped her arm. Lifting her gently from the pilot’s seat, I said, “I can pilot a dreadnought if I have to. Go on back to the galley and ask your husband if he thinks I’m capable of running this little tub.”
She looked surprised, annoyed. But she came out of the chair without resistance and started back toward the galley, casting a resentful look at me over her shoulder.
“You too,” I told the scientist in the other seat. “I’ll handle this by myself.”
He huffed a little, but he left me alone in the cockpit. Scanning the control board, I saw that the vessel had an automated orbital-insertion program built into its computer’s memory. Sensors were already estimating Lunga’s mass and distance. All I had to do was touch a pressure pad on the board and the ship did the rest by itself.
I activated the communicator, instead, and asked for the Skorpis base commander. Several underlings tried
