DPÕF - Type Mismatch Error [FanFic]
MegaZone
1) Some of you may have noticed that I seem to have moved Utopia
Planitia from Cygnus Beta to Zeta Cygni. This is, in fact, not an
error nor a move, but a _correction_ of a long-standing error. Let me
explain: way back in late 1991, when we (the authors) were figuring
out where our destination in the Wedge was going to be, we picked a
name at random, something that sounded good. The name of a
constellation, a Greek letter, wonderful.
Well, since then, I've taken a basic astronomy course and
learned that we did it all wrong. Stars are named like that, yes, but
in a different format. The _first_ word is the Greek letter, and
denotes the brightness of the star relative to the others in the
constellation; it's an ordinal. The second is the constellation's
name, and since most of them are Latin or ancient Greek words, they're
found in the genitive (the noun form which indicates being "of" or
"from" something). So our star should have been Beta Cygni.
This, however, wasn't the end of the story. Ever obsessed
with details, I did some research and found out that Beta Cygni is an
awful star to try to put a Dyson sphere around; it's a binary, a
double star. So, hunting through a star catalog, I found another in
Cygnus which would do the job equally well. Zeta Cygni, as it turns
out, is a G-class star, much like our own Sun. Much more suitable.
Therefore, we (the characters) haven't moved... we've _always_
been at Zeta Cygni, since the very first mention of the Utopia
Planitia Naval Shipyards, 'way back in _The Long Road_. We (the
authors) just didn't know enough to know that. This may seem a
needless change, but I want things to be _right_, and so, I've changed
it. Someday I'll get round to revising all the other bits, too,
probably this summer.
2) This story contains no characters you're familiar with from other
UF stories, even in cameo appearances. Nobody you know is even
mentioned by name, as far as I can recall. This is the first story
(if memory serves) which contains no WDF personnel; instead, it's set
in our universe and introduces a couple of new characters who will be
popping up later on, in the Future Imperfect cycle. Consider it a
preview of sorts.
3) The two characters previously mentioned are blatantly stolen from
something (big surprise that). However, I think those of you who
recognize them will be surprised (and, I hope, pleased) at the way
I've incorporated them.
4) It's sort of silly. <grin>
Well, that's enough of my prattle. On with the show!
Yours,
--G.
--
"We've got to get a new travel agent." --Hot Rod | gry...@world.std.com
gry...@hotblack.schunix.dmc.com - gry...@gandalf.umcs.maine.edu | -><-
Don't go away... it's right down here.
EYRIE PRODUCTIONS, UNLIMITED
presents
TYPE MISMATCH ERROR
an Undocumented Features story
Benjamin D. Hutchins
with special thanks to the #Eyrie crew, who got me rambling about
Things I'd Like To Do one night, and voila
(c) 1993-94 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited
"The River of Dreams" was written by Billy Joel and is (c) 1992
Impulsive Music. Lyrics are reprinted without permission, but at this
point, it'd be the least of my worries if Billy got mad at me.
TRIANGLE ZONE INCARCERATION CENTER
CARDASSIAN MILITARY OUTPOST 44
11 MARCH 2382 (SIX YEARS BEFORE WDF REUNIFICATION)
Like all Cardassian installations, the Incarceration Center of
Military Outpost Forty-Four was unattractive, made of sharply angled
black metal and dirty grey concrete. This particular installation was
made worse by the fact that it was a prison, and so the Cardassian
designers had not even paid their usual cursory attention to creature
comforts.
This particular center was being used for the incarceration of
"troublemakers" from the Cardassian conquest of a couple of star
systems in the Triangle, that region where the Federation, the
Cardassian Star Empire, and the Empire of Kilrah all abut, near
Sirius. Most were civilians, people who had just happened to be in
the area when the Cardassian war machine came rolling through; they
would be held and ransomed (in more polite, diplomatic terms,of
course) to their respective greater governments. Those who were not
retrieved would be ... disposed of.
Leftenant Kaemar Runntt, Second Sirian Military Reserve, lay
on his bunk in his tiny, narrow cell and looked up at the ceiling,
where a small light fixture sputtered ineffectually in the gloom.
The cell was uncomfortable for him; Runntt was not a small man. He
was big-boned and ungainly, carrying a few extra pounds around the
middle, enormously strong and almost, just like that old cliche,
totally unaware of it. His fur was mostly light brown, with the odd
dark-brown spot common in his rather indeterminate ethnicity of
Sirian, and he had bad teeth from his days as a grav-hockey champ in
high school. He scratched idly at the unkempt mop of reddish hair on
his head and wondered what he should do.
He was fortunate, he knew that; the Cardassians didn't know he
was a soldier. He wasn't really certain how much trouble he was in;
it could be said that Lt. Runntt wasn't that bright.
On the other hand, it kept him from worrying too much.
A day or two passed.
Runntt was jolted awake by a loud scream, followed by the
sound of ripping fabric and a deeper voice snarling in anger. >Get in
there, you little bitch!< that deeper voice barked, in Cardassian.
There was the sound of a heavy impact from the cell directly to
Runntt's left, and another voice, the one that had screamed, produced
a small grunt of pain on impact.
The door to the left slammed, and Runntt watched the cell
block's jailer stomp past, a jagged, bloody tear in his right sleeve.
His boots made a sharp _tac, tac, tac_ on the concrete floor as he
stormed out of the cell block, muttering under his breath.
Runntt, his interest piqued, went to the front of the cell,
pressing himself against the wire-mesh and trying unsuccessfully to
look out and around into the next cell.
"Hey," he said in Standard. "Can you hear me? D'you speak
Standard?"
"Who doesn't?" a female voice, throaty and attractive but with
more than a hint of lingering pain in it, responded sardonically.
"Whaddaya want?"
"Uh, I just wanted to see if you were okay," Runntt replied
personably.
"Oh, yeah, I'm just fine," the voice from the adjoining cell
replied. "Just had the living crap kicked outta me, been thrown in a
Cardassian prison, pretty soon they'll either kill me or send me home
to die, I'm in great shape. How 'bout you?"
Completely missing the acid in the tone, Runntt replied
amiably, "Oh, I'm doin' okay. The food here's pretty good, really.
Wish the light was better, though ... this's gonna ruin my eyes. I'm
Runntt, by the way. Kaemar Runntt."
"Rhita," the other voice said. "Rhita Te'Lara."
"Pleased ta meetcha, Rhita. Where ya from?"
Rhita sighed. Who was this twit? Normally, she would have
simply gotten rid of him through her usual method, being insufferably
rude. This time, though, she had the strange feeling he wouldn't even
notice. Besides, there was something so ... guileless about his tone
that, after living her life in a society where everyone had an
ulterior motive, she found it strangely refreshing. She stretched out
on her bunk and wondered what she should say.
Telling him the truth would be dangerous, she decided. She
was in the Triangle, after all, and not yet out of danger.
Out of danger. There was a laugh. She had been so close! So
close to escaping.
She chose to tell him the abbreviated version: not lies, but
not nearly the whole truth. "They got me on Morgna ]I[," she said.
"The spaceport. I was heading out ... just barely missed getting
away."
"Boy, that's rough," Runntt empathized. "I was on Morgna ][,
helping out with the system defense. I'm in the militia."
[He's probably human, then. Morgna ][ is a human colony,]
Rhita said to herself. That was promising; humans tended to be more
oriented toward individuals than race impressions these days.
"Yeh? You're lucky they haven't killed you."
"Ssh. They don't know. Definitely don't know."
"How'd you manage that?"
"I was ... uh ... outta uniform at the time."
"Oh?"
"In the shower. Yeah. Definitely in the shower."
"Oh." Rhita stifled a laugh. It was a vaguely amusing
thought.
"You got anybody who'll pay to have ya back?" Runntt asked.
"I hope not," Rhita muttered under her breath, knowing that
the answer was, in all likelihood, "Yes."
"I don't. No family or nothin' like that." He didn't sound
depressed; sounded like he was just stating a fact.
Rhita sighed. "Look, Runntt ... I don't mean to be rude,"
(now there was something she didn't say often), "but I'm beat. I'm
gonna try and get some sleep, okay? I'll talk to ya later."
"Okay, Rhita. No problem. G'night!"
Rhita stretched again, trying (unsuccessfully) to pop the kink
out of her back that the jailer's boot had introduced to it, and
yawned.
So close!
PRINCE THRAKATH'S PRIVATE ESTATE
GHORAH KHAR, JUST INSIDE THE KILRATHI BORDER
TWO STANDARD DAYS EARLIER
Ensign Kraven Milkpaw was bored. It was an honor being posted
to the Prince's honor guard and all, but this job was just plain dull,
and unnecessary to boot, he figured. Who was going to try to steal or
sabotage Prince Thrakhath's personal runabout here on Ghorah Khar?
There hadn't been a hint of rebellion here in years. All in all,
Milkpaw decided he'd much rather be flying a fighter than Serving his
Glorious Prince. But, oh well; such was his lot in life.
He stretched out a stiff spot in his leg and leaned on his
pulse rifle, yawning and scratching behind one of his ears.
He heard a footstep, almost silent, near the doorway, and
whirled, bringing his rifle to parade-rest (wouldn't do to draw on His
Highness), barking, >Who goes there?!<
>Relax,< the intruder replied, stepping out of the shadows
into the light of the landing pad's arc lamps. >I thought you'd be
bored and lonely, Ensign, so I came out to keep you company.<
Milkpaw's eyes widened. He recognized this intruder. She was
part of the Prince's entourage -- in fact, everyone in Kilrah knew of
her. A simple peasant (the best Standard translation of "kilrah'ra",
the common class in Kilrathi civilization, as opposed to "thrakh'ra",
the ruling class) girl whose unparalleled beauty and talent had
captured His Highness's heart. He'd taken her without dowry from her
family's home on Mikhrath, essentially buying her, and stated his
determination to make her, commoner or no, his wife. Rumor had it she
was already his mistress; Prince Thrakath was not known for his
patience, and the Emperor was balking hard at the idea of his grandson
and heir marrying kilrah'ra, however uncommon.
Milkpaw had to admit, she _was_ beautiful. At the moment she
was wearing, so far as he could tell, nothing but a siral, the
toga-like, diaphanous garment favored for (if not always by) royal
mistresses. Her short grey fur, white hands, face, and feet, and
green eyes, coupled with her pleasant proportions and even the way she
moved, sensual without the impression of knowledge, all conspired to
make her eminently desirable. Milkpaw felt his fur standing, and
struggled to control it.
>My lady,< he said, >you should not be out here. It is
dangerous.<
>Dangerous? What's dangerous about a landing bay? You worry
too much, Kraven.<
[She called me by name!]
She walked over to him, leaning on his shoulder, and looked
into his eyes, grinning a Kilrathi grin. >You look very lonely
indeed, Kraven. I think I'll take care of that for you.<
As much as he liked that idea, Milkpaw resisted it, knowing
what an eminently BAD idea it was. >My lady, the Prince --<
>Feh! What of the Prince? He's bedding some serving wench
who caught his eye at dinner -- what should he care how I amuse
myself? The fool loves me, but he has no self-control. He'll make a
poor Emperor.<
>Such talk is treasonous!<
She laughed, a high, clear yowl. >You amuse me so, Kraven!
Thrakhath is a good pilot, and an inspiring leader, but he's an idiot.
He'll never accomplish the statecraft this empire needs. Even his old
grandfather, warmonger as he is, is better than Thrakhath will be.<
>I ... I cannot agree, my lady.< This conversational trend
was deeply disturbing Milkpaw, who, though a wee bit disgruntled with
his posting, was nonetheless a very patriotic man.
The royal mistress blinked in distress. >Oh, I have upset
you. I'm sorry, Kraven. Let us just forget it. Suffice it to say
that Thrakhath will not know ... and even if he did, you have nothing
to fear.< She touched him, suddenly, unexpectedly, and provocatively,
as her tail wound around his lower leg, and, leaning closer, she
breathed, >Unless you're afraid of me...<
Milkpaw started to laugh, but never got the chance. Suddenly
his leg was no longer holding him up, and the other, off-balance,
couldn't take up the load. He tumbled to his back on the ground, and
the last thing he saw before his world exploded into red stars was a
magnificent view up the royal mistress's siral as she kicked him in
the head.
Collecting the passcard to the runabout from his belt and his
pulser from the ground, she said to his unconscious form, >Well, you
should be.<
Moments later, she was aboard the runabout, and before anyone
could sound the alarm or respond, she had raised ship and left the
planet.
Rhita Te'Lara was on her way to freedom.
... or at least, she had been, until a converter blowout had
forced her down on Morgna ]I[, just barely inside the Federation's
borders. Damned blasted bloody Kilrathi machinery! Even the Prince's
own shuttle was a piece of crap. Only the military hardware in the
Empire had any quality at all; anything else was weakened by the
corner-cutting made necessary by the Empire's vast military budget.
Rhita hadn't been worried, even then; after all, the Prince's men
couldn't know that she was down on Morgna ]I[, and a converter was not
difficult to replace. She'd learned to do it back in the good old
days, back in her father's shop on Mikhrath.
There was somebody she hadn't thought about in a while. Her
father. Kirthan Te'Lara, the finest mechanic on Mikhrath. Kirthan
Te'Lara, whose skill was known across the Empire. Kirthan Te'Lara,
who could have been a great designer if not for his commoner's
heritage. Kirthan Te'Lara, secret sector leader of the Telthin
League, the brotherhood that sought to topple the Imperial rule and
aristocratic privilege that overran the Empire. The Federation had
been working with him for years; they knew him only by his code name,
given him by a Federation historian with a penchant for choosing
things he thought had significance: Robespierre.
Kirthan Te'Lara was a progressive man. He taught his daughter
his skills at an early age, and mostly in secret, since it was not
considered seemly for women to know anything about technology in the
Empire. Publicly, she, like most common girls who weren't farmers or
maids, was being prepared for the priestesshood. And then, Thrakhath
had come to Mikhrath, looking for the man they called the best
mechanic in all Kilrahia to tune the running gear of his starfighter.
Te'Lara was shocked; the Prince-Imperial, and at the worst possible
time, too. He was to be meeting with his Federation counterpart that
very evening in the spaceport hangar where he did business. The
meeting could not be postponed, and who knew what kind of damage a
missed meeting could do to his revolution?
Seeing no way out, Te'Lara was prepared to miss the meeting in
order to entertain Thrakhath; but Kirthan Te'Lara was also a _lucky_
man. His progressive attitude and unconditional love of his daughter
(in an empire where a common blessing is, "May a daughter never darken
your hearth") had produced in her a loyalty and selflessness almost
unheard of in a daughter of Kilrah. In order to protect her father's
revolution, and his life, Rhita Te'Lara gave herself to Thrakhath that
night. The next morning the Prince-Imperial took her with him when he
left Mikhrath. She had never seen, and now probably never would see,
him again.
She lay on the cot in her cell, brooding over these thoughts,
having awakened from a dream of her kithood. She was seven, and her
father was teaching her how to replace a blown converter. She'd been
in the middle of doing that very job when the Cardassians had come
rolling through the Morgna spaceport. Her jaw still ached a little
where one of them had struck her with the turbospanner she'd been, a
moment before, cracking the skull of another with. Damned Cardassian
storm troopers. She was a good fighter, but they were trained by one
of the best school of killing in the galaxy. Rhita had once heard
that even Kilrathi Death Commandos feared the Cardassian Expeditionary
Force troops. After her altercation with them, she knew why.
They'd've killed her if not for the intervention of that major, the
one with the nasty ink-vine scar on his face and the strangely gentle
eyes.
The one who had slipped her the card-computer when he patted
her down for weapons.
She looked around, wary, not wanting to _seem_ like she was
looking around. There didn't seem to be any security cameras watching
the individual prisoners. The Cardassians probably figured their
screening procedures were good enough to make watching each individual
prisoner unnecessary. The two cell-block guards always stayed at
opposite ends of the block; every ten Standard minutes or so, they
would pace mechanically down opposite sides and replace each other at
the ends. They had just done so as she awakened; she remembered the
drumbeat of their bootheels as they passed.
Now, then, was the time.
She slipped the card-comp out of her pocket and looked it
over. It seemed to be of fairly standard design, and had the
interstellar symbols on the most pertinent keys, although the keypad
itself bore Cardassian numerals. The front was half small keys, and
half featureless greyness. Its surface was strange; smooth, slick,
and faintly squishy. She turned it over; the back was featureless,
grey, except for the narrow black stripe that ran across it. Turning
it back over, she pressed the pad of her thumb to the red power
switch.
It came to life with a faint sizzle, and vibrated slightly in
her hands. The face shivered as if a force field had activated, and
yellow Kilrathi letters marched across the blank half, which had
become black. Translated to Standard, the message read: ROBESPIERRE
SENDS HIS LOVE TO THE BRAVEST DAUGHTER OF KILRAH. OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
AT 1440 STANDARD DAY 3; SORRY UNABLE TO PROVIDE WINDOW BEFORE THEN.
MODE 2 WILL FIND THE WAY; MODE 3 WILL FIND THE TOOLS; MODE 4 WILL OPEN
THE GATES. GOOD LUCK. --DANTON
Danton! Her father's Federation contact was a Cardassian?
Perhaps not; perhaps a metamorph, or a disguise-master. Whichever;
the door was being opened for her. What the hell did "find the way",
"find the tools", and "open the gates" mean?
Counting from the corner and hoping that Cardassians used the
standard keypad layout, she pressed what she hoped was the mode-two
key. The card shivered again, and the display window resolved a small
holographic map on it. No, not a map -- a floor plan! A floor plan
of the prison, with her position flashing, a small green dot. She
pressed the "3" and was rewarded with a clever map trick, whereby the
point of view of the map swept downward into the corridors. Then it
tracked out of the cell, through the far door, down a couple of
corridors, and into what appeared to be an armory.
So what was 4? She pressed the key, and the card shivered
once more. This time, though, its entire character changed. The
keypad melted into its surface, and it resolved itself into a
Cardassian Occupation Authority keycard, like the ones the jailers
carried.
>Sivar's claws,< Rhita whispered to herself. Danton had given
her a Forge. The meaning of "open the gates" had just become
abundently clear.
She heard the guards beginning to move, and, not knowing quite
what to do, squeezed the corner of the card where the power switch had
been. Immediately, it shifted back to its original form, went blank,
and died; she put it away.
Momentarily, the guard who had come down her side came to the
front of her cell; atypically, though, he paused, looking inside. His
face wore a quizzical expression, and his eyes, like those of Danton,
seemed warmer and more gentle than those of the other Cardassians
Rhita had seen.
She stared back at him with her own eyes, green and slitted,
the pupils wide in the dim light, and said, "'Smatter. Never seen a
grey one before?"
The guard smiled -- not a cruel smile, or a cold smile,
either. He seemed genuinely amused.
"No," he replied. "No, I can't say that I have. Then again, I
haven't been in the Triangle long."
"I see. This your first repression?"
He stiffened a little, then said, almost sadly, "I am
Cardassian. I do what I must."
"Yeah, well, we all do what we have to do, I guess," Rhita
replied evenly. "Try to remember that when I kill you, and don't hate
me too much on your way to your hell."
He smiled again, and chuckled gently. "With many Cardassians
your wit would earn you a beating," he said matter-of-factly. "With
me it earns you respect. If that day comes, I will recommend you
highly to my devils." He turned and walked away from the cell.
"Well, what do you know," Rhita muttered to herself.
"Hey, Rhita?" came the voice from the next cell.
"Yeah, Runntt?" she replied.
"You sounded pretty sure you're gonna get out, a minute ago
there."
"Well, I've gotta keep my spirits up somehow," she replied.
"There's always a way out of everything. My father taught me that."
"Sounds like your father was a pretty good guy."
"He is."
"He's still alive?"
"Far as I know."
"Then how come you don't wanna go back?"
"It's a long story, Runntt."
"Oh. I see. Well, if you don't wanna tell me, that's fine.
Definitely fine. Shouldn't've asked. Nope."
"Nah, it's not that, it's just... ahh, what the hell. It's
not like I'm pressed for time. To make it short, I don't really know
where he is, and he doesn't really know where I am, 'kay? We haven't
seen each other in a while."
"Gee, that's too bad. I think if a person's got a family, she
should keep in touch. But that's just me. I mean, I would if I had
one. It just seems like the kind of thing a person should do."
"Well, real life has a way of intruding on what you should do
sometimes, Runntt."
"Yeah, tell me about it. I wasn't gonna join the militia. I
was gonna play hockey, but they threw me out of school my junior year.
They said I was cheating on tests. Yeah. Definitely said I was
cheating."
"Were you?"
"No. That's why I'm mad. I mean, if I was and they caught
me, then fine, I could handle that. You know, own up to it. But I
wasn't. Definitely wasn't. Jorin Reyy set me up. He was my
roommate. He wanted my place on the team."
"So he set you up to get expelled?"
"I didn't get expelled. I got thrown out. Yeah. Definitely
got thrown out."
Rhita rolled her eyes. "Right. He set you up to get thrown
out?"
"Yeah. He planted stuff in my room and then lied at the
academic hearing. Boy, I tell ya, I never was so mad. I coulda hurt
him."
"Nice guy. And nobody believed you when you told them he was
lying?"
"Nope. Jorin was a smart guy, honor student and stuff like
that. Everybody loved him. Me, I was just this big dumb jock. They
always figured I was stupid on account of I'm kinda slow, but I always
figured stuff out eventually. Just takes me a little while longer is
all. Nobody ever believes me."
Rhita had said, "I do," before she even realized she
sympathized.
"You do?"
"Yeah," she continued, not knowing why she was saying it. "I
never went to school."
"Never?"
"No."
"Why not? You sound smart. Yeah. Definitely smart."
"Where I come from, girls don't go to school."
"That's dumb. Some of the smartest people I ever met were
girls. Jiana was real smart, and she was a girl. Yeah. She was
definitely a girl."
"Who's Jiana?"
"She was my girlfriend at school." There was a short pause.
"Jorin took her, too."
"Sheez," Rhita said, becoming incensed at this guy she didn't
even know. "This guy sounds like a real prince. Why'd you put up
with it? I'd've rearranged his molars."
"Would've been dumb," Runntt replied sagely. "They already
thought I was a cheat and a liar. If I'd've beat up Jorin I would've
just proven it more. 'Sides, it wouldn't've gotten anything back."
Rhita sat in silence for a moment, mulling over this odd bit
of insight from the faceless voice next door. Then she said, "Yeah...
makes sense. I think I still woulda done it though. Make me feel
better and all."
"Hurting people doesn't make me feel good."
While she was digesting that one, all hell broke loose. The
lights suddenly went out, and in the pitch blackness, alarms started
buzzing. In the dark, Rhita smiled, taking the card out of her
pocket. She could still see fairly well, if in black and white; well
enough to see that the door to her cell had come unlocked, and was
gapping open about an inch. She shoved it open and ducked out into
the corridor, and, looking quickly at both ends of the cell block, saw
that the guards were back-to, trying to open the cell-block doors and
failing. None of the other cell doors were open, and the other
prisoners were starting to shout.
Rhita remembered the map, and made for the far end. As she
passed in front of Runntt's cell, she paused for a half-second, and,
seized by a whim she could never name, shifted the Forge to key mode
and opened his cell door.
"Come on, Runntt. We're leaving," she whispered, and made for
the door that would lead to the armory.
Without a word, Runntt slipped out of his cell with a
quietness that seemed inappropriate for his great bulk, and followed
Rhita, who didn't look back. Instead she was intent on the guard at
the door, who still did not see her.
She was on him before he could react, slamming him face-first
into the door and taking his sidearm from his belt, then spinning him
around. Startled and bloodied, he met her eyes and a spark of
recognition showed in them, this close, even in the dark. It was the
young guard who had stopped to talk to her a few minutes before.
"So," he said calmly. "Now you kill me?"
"Are you kidding?" she replied. "You're the only Cardassian
who's ever been nice to me." Then she knocked him out.
The guard at the opposite end, hearing the noise, fired once,
wildly, his shot briefly and brilliantly illuminating the cell block.
It went high of Rhita, but clipped her right ear, knocking a small
chunk out of the edge, and the pressure wave that accompanied the
disruptor bolt clipped her like a hammer. Yowling with the sudden hot
blast of pain, Rhita picked his grey outline out of the blackness and
shot the middle of it. Pinned on the end of the beam, he was flung
against his own door and slid down.
Shaking her head, Rhita carded the door open and ducked out,
blinking painfully in the lighted corridor beyond. There was no alarm
outside; apparently whoever had engineered the blackout and the door
malfunctions -- Danton? -- had also kept it from becoming common
knowledge.
"Follow me," she said, and without looking back she led the
way to the armory, opened it, and stepped in. The door locked behind
them.
"Hmm." Revolutionary that he was, Kirthan Te'Lara had also
taught his daughter about weapons, and being so close to the Triangle,
that included Cardassian weapons. Rhita looked over the racks of
weapons and pulled off a disruptor rifle, ignoring the pain that
radiated from her wounded ear. She felt warm stickiness on that side
of her face; apparently it was bleeding. Things were starting to feel
sort of tinny and hollow, and she didn't quite feel right somehow.
"Here, hold this," she said, turning to Runntt -- and
stopping as she got her first good look at the fellow prisoner she had
liberated for no reason she could think of.
"You... you're a _Sirian_!" she said in disbelief. Sirians,
dread enemies of her people even longer than the Salusians, were known
for their militarism and viciousness, especially toward Kilrathi. It
was said that the Empire had become warlike in the first place to
defend itself from the early spacefaring Sirians, and that before
then, the Empire of Kilrah had been peaceful and prosperous. Rhita
had never really believed the story, but it was still part of her
heritage, and she recoiled in shock from the big, imposing Sirian.
"Of course!" Runntt replied, as if it were the most obvious
thing in the world. "Gee, thanks for getting me out of there, Rhita,"
he continued, prattling on as if nothing mattered. He took the
disruptor from her slack hand and slung it over his shoulder.
"Lessee. I bet they don't have any body armor that would fit me in
here, but they probably have some that would fit you. Yeah, I'd say
probably. You look like a standard nine... nine and a half. Yeah,
nine and a half," he said, looking her over with a businesslike eye.
"Too big in front for a nine, you wouldn't be able to breathe." He
went to the rack of body armor and started shuffling through it.
Flustered, Rhita looked down at herself and realized that the
zip of her rather tattered, dirty shipboard jumpsuit was cruising
rather low. Not that she felt ashamed of her body; but she had to
admit that, after two days in a Cardassian prison, she had looked
better. Then it occurred to her that she was worried about how she
looked for a bloody Sirian soldier. _Then_ it occurred to her that he
was looking for body armor for her, and didn't seem to care that she
was Kilrathi.
"But you're _Sirian_," she said again.
"I know," he replied nonchalantly, taking out a set of body
armor, looking it over, and putting it back. "Are you okay, Rhita?
Maybe the pressure wave from the blast rattled you."
"I'm fine!" she insisted, the shout causing a headache to rise
up and bite her between the eyes. Wincing, she continued quietly,
"I'm fine. I'm just surprised. I mean, you're... you're a dog."
Rhita wondered, idly, as she said it, where the hell the Standard
nicknames "dog" and "cat" for Sirians and Kilrathi had come from.
"Put this on," Runntt said, handing her an armored vest.
"Can't find any leggings that size that are any good, sorry." He
picked up a couple of grenades, looked them over, then stuck them in
the pockets of the civilian jeans he was wearing. "You seem awful
stuck on this whole thing. I mean I'm a different type than you are,
but we're both still dogs."
Rhita's brow furrowed as she fumbled with the snaps on the
vest. Her fingers weren't working right. "What do you mean, we're
both dogs? Runntt, take a good look at me and tell me what you see."
Runntt peered at her. "I see... " He grinned and grabbed
another disruptor rifle. "I see an awful pretty dog."
"Runntt! You really _are_ stupid!" Rhita shouted, even though
it made her head throb as if it were going to crack. "Look carefully.
Notice the ears, the tail, the fangs. Check out these claws. I'm a
Kilrathi, Runntt, hardy Kilrah peasant stock. I-am-a-_cat_!"
"Don't be ridiculous," Runntt said, and keyed the door open.
"You can't possibly be a cat."
"And why not?" Rhita replied, following him into the corridor.
She was starting to feel rather awful, and didn't really care, in a
disjointed way, that he was taking over.
"'Cause," Runntt replied cheerily. "I hate cats. Been taught
to kill 'em since I was a kid. If you were a cat I'd have to kill
you. Yeah. Definitely have to kill you."
[Maybe,] Rhita said to herself, [he isn't as dumb as he
looks.]
With the aid of the Forge, gaining access to the spaceport
wasn't a big problem. However, getting access to a _ship_ would be;
they were all under guard in separate slips. Cardassian military
shuttlecraft, prisoner transports, maybe even a fighter or two;
certainly there was something in this port that they could use to
escape. Runntt and Rhita stood on opposite sides of the door to one
such slip, chosen at random from the map, and, fighting down an
increasingly powerful urge to vomit and pass out (not necessarily in
that order), Rhita plied the Forge once more. The door hissed open,
and they swung around the sides quite smoothly considering their
relative lack of experience in the field of "storming spaceport
installations". There were two guards; within a moment, there were
none.
Still grinning his broken-toothed grin, Runntt locked the door
and rigged his grenades to it in an interesting manner. Then they
turned to the matter of the ship.
"Now where do you suppose they got this?" Rhita muttered,
looking it over.
"I dunno. You think it can get us outta here?"
"You kiddin'? These things are fuckin' legends back home. My
father used to talk about them like they were the chariots of the
gods. Said he worked on one once, 'way back when, before I was born.
'Course, that was a while ago."
"This one doesn't look like it's in very good shape. Yeah,
definitely... definitely seen better days."
"C'mon, Runntt. These things never die; they just get uglier.
Besides, you really want to go through that storm-the-slip thing
_again_?" It was getting harder to stay steady; pretty soon, Rhita
realized, Runntt would start realizing that something _was_ wrong with
her. Idly, her disorganized mind had pause to wonder why she was
concealing that fact in the first place.
Shrugging, she used the Forge to open the ramp of the ship
they found waiting there: a decrepit-looking Corellian Heavy
Industries YT-1300 stock light starfreighter. Back in the 2100s,
these ships had been made famous by the legendary smugglers of the
Golden Age. Han Solo and his Millennium Falcon were the most famous;
Roark Garnet and Dorion Discus; Natalia Crane and Ichabod; James
Farrago and Magnum Cartel. Legendary for their flexibility,
toughness, longevity and, above all else, their openness to
modification, the YT-1300 was the '57 Chevy Bel Air convertible of
starfreighters.
Although, Rhita had to admit as she strapped into the pilot's
seat, this one _had_ seen better days. Wiring sprouted out of the
control console in several places, and the Cardassian Security Control
unit had been wired in sloppily as hell. Some non-essential gauges
were missing, and others didn't look like they worked. Still, if it
worked, and got them out of there, Rhita didn't care if the seats were
missing. She ran over the controls in her memory, which took a few
seconds more than usual; struggling to concentrate, she preflighted
the ship, only fumbling once.
She jumped as she felt Runntt's hand on her shoulder. "Better
let me do that," he said gently. "You're gonna pass out any second."
"I'm _fine_, Runntt," she said, or at least attempted to. As
she did so, the cockpit blurred, and the pain spiked to a new high,
making her wince visibly.
"No you're not," said Runntt. Ignoring her protests, Runntt
gathered her up like a child and put her in the co-pilot's seat, then,
lowered his own bulk into the pilot seat and started working the
controls with a deftness she found, even in her current haze,
startling.
"Top of my class in middle-tonnage starpiloting," Runntt said
with a grin, fired up the reactors, and switched on the gravitics.
With a wobble and whine, the ship raised up off the floor. "Boy,"
said Runntt, sounding surprised. "This ship looks awful, but that's a
nice touch on those gravitics. Hey, Rhita, give me the Forge, will
ya?"
Rhita held out the card; Runntt steadied her hand with one of
his and took the card with the other. "Hang on," he said. "Just as
soon as we're in hyperspace I'll find the med kit in this thing." He
slotted the Forge in the security control console; the light pinged
amber (the Cardassian "go" color), and the slip bay doors opened in
front of them, revealing a welcome starfield.
The comm unit squawked. "TK 421, you are not authorized to
depart. TK 421, respond please."
Runntt merely grinned his silly grin and opened up the ion
thrusters, irradiating the slip as he boosted away from the station on
main drive. In the small (and surprisingly functional) rear scan
screen, Rhita watched dizzily as the great grey bulk of Cardassian
Military Outpost 44 shrank away. Runntt turned to the astrogation
computer and started computing a hyperspace trajectory, to where,
Rhita wasn't certain.
That was the main problem with these old Corellian ships, and
in ways it was both curse and blessing. They had the old-fashioned
hyperdrives, the first functional design philosophy of FTL travel in
the known galaxy. Instead of warping local realspace to achieve
faster than light _virtual_ speeds, as modern warp drive did, or
folding space across a complex hypermathematical model to travel
instantly from point a to point b as fold drive did, the old
hyperdrives pushed the vessel into hyperspace, the intermediary
dimension where the speed of light does not affect maximum travel
speeds, where relativity does not apply. Hyperspace travel is
cheaper, energy-wise, than warp travel or folding (the latter of which
consumes _huge_ amounts of energy), and the drive mechanisms
themselves are smaller and cheaper to produce. However, without
complex astrogation, hyperspace travel is dangerous in the extreme,
and it always takes more time than either of the other common methods.
Still, it has practical advantages. For one thing, once
you're in hyperspace, no one can touch you. There are rumors of
battles having been fought in hyperspace in the ancient days, but no
one gives them credence. For another, it's very reliable. If your
astrogation is on, then you _will_ get to your destination.
Eventually. (Assuming your drive doesn't fail.) Third, some people
enjoy the necessity of dropping completely out of communication for a
week or so during the transit. For the smugglers of old it was a way
of hiding out and obscuring your destination, and for others, it's
simply a free vacation.
Runntt was more interested in it from the smuggler's
perspective, and worked away at the calculations, ignoring the comm
unit as it barked out threats and orders and finally told him that a
fighter wing was being dispatched.
"So what," he muttered to himself, and threw the hyperdrive
lever. The stars rayed into lines, and then, with a vertiginous rush
of false acceleration, they were in hyperspace, away, clear, and free.
"Pretty slick, Runntt," said Rhita, and smiled weakly.
"You're pretty slick."
"I try," he said, and then went back into the main body of the
ship and hunted up a medkit.
FOUR DAYS LATER
Rhita, her ear and head bandaged, sat in the pilot's seat,
looking out at the whirling blue-white pageantry of hyperspace and
thinking. In three days they would be at Zeta Cygni, the home of the
Wedge Defense Force's reconstruction efforts. Hopefully both could
find some sort of political asylum there. Rhita felt much better; it
had only been a mild concussion. Most of her problems with it had
stemmed from the stressfulness of the situation. What a surprise.
"Hey, Rhita," said Runntt, walking into the cockpit.
"Yeah, Runntt," she replied, still looking out the window.
"I was thinking," Runntt said, sitting down in the passenger
seat behind the copilot's. "What are you gonna do, you know, after we
get to Zeta?"
"I dunno," she said. "I was too focused on just getting away
from things back home to worry about what I was going to do here."
She considered. "I think... I think I'd like to sing."
"Sing?"
"Yeah. I was always good at it back home. Everybody I sang
for said I had real talent." [Even Prince Thrakhath,] she said wryly
to herself. "I wonder if the people of the Federation would mind if I
just wandered around and sang to them."
"Nah," said Runntt. "The Fed's not as bad as people on the
outside say."
"Most places aren't."
"True. Definitely true." There was a pause. "So, uh... you,
uh, want any company out there?"
She turned around and smiled at him. "Why? You thinking of
dropping the Sirian Militia thing?"
"My hitch was just about up when I got caught," he replied.
"Fact, it ran out yesterday."
"No kidding."
"Yeah. I'm a free dog. Definitely a free dog. Just like
you, Rhita."
She shook her head. "Whatever you say, Runntt."
"Hey, is that a yes?"
"Sure, why not? Every singer needs a manager."
"Gee, thanks, Rhita. Gosh. This's great. Who'd'a thought
that getting thrown in a Cardassian jail would be a good thing?"
Rhita laughed. "Who indeed."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Runntt said,
almost timidly, "Rhita?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you sing for me?"
She laughed again. "Sure." She thought for a moment, and
remembered one of the songs her father had loved, the first song he
had ever sung for her. She'd had to rearrange it for her own
contralto voice, and it had taken her years to master some of the
syllables, since it was an ancient song. It was in Standard, dating
back to Earth, just after the Wedge Defense Force began, before the
Earth's people knew for certain there were others Out There. It
summed up a lot of Rhita's reasons for leaving Kilrah.
"In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
From the mountains of faith
To a river so deep
I must be looking for something
Something sacred I lost
But the river is wide
And it's too hard to cross
And even though I know the river is wide
I walk down every evening and I stand on the shore
And try to cross to the opposite side
So I can finally find out what I've been looking for
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the valley of fear
To a river so deep
And I've been searching for something
Taken out of my soul
Something I'd never lose
Something somebody stole
I don't know why I go walking at night
But now I'm tired and I don't want to walk anymore
I hope it doesn't take the rest of my life
Until I find what it is I've been looking for
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the jungle of doubt
To a river so deep
I know I'm searching for something
Something so undefined
That it can only be seen
By the eyes of the blind
In the middle of the night
I'm not sure about a life after this
Gods know I've never been the spiritual one
Baptized by fire I wade into the river
That is running to the promised land
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the desert of truth
To the river so deep
We all end in the ocean
We all start in the streams
We're all carried along
By the River of Dreams
In the middle of the night...."
"Gosh. That was real pretty, Rhita."
"Yeah, well... I do that one better when I have a synclav."
-END-