Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [69]
“Communication the key is,” ThirtyOneSon observed. “Once that established is, then the human all such questions for us can answer.”
Reaching out for the second time TwelveSon grabbed the human, this time reaching up over his head to tug on the creature’s arm. Its helmeted head jerked around sharply, and the Unop-Patha could see the large facial orifice gaping and moving once again. But the human would not leave its place flattened against the wall.
Bemused, TwelveSon stepped back—only to see that his companion had retreated several steps and was staring mutely up at the alien. “Now what is it?”
It took ThirtyOneSon a moment to respond. “Your suit’s transmission pickup. Off internal communication switch and change to—” He glanced down at the wrist console he had been fingering. “—eighty-six point three dash eleven.”
“Why, what the point is?” TwelveSon looked from his friend back up at the immovable alien. “Don’t tell me you understand it can?”
“Yes.” ThirtyOneSon’s words were barely audible. “Yes, I can understand it. Just listen, and you will, too.”
Bewildered and a bit angry, TwelveSon proceeded to do as his companion suggested. As soon as he entered the recommended frequency into his suit instrumentation his ears were assailed by the voice of the alien, and he understood the truth of what ThirtyOneSon had told him. He found that he could indeed understand the human.
It screaming was.
11
“They’re saying what?”
Having not been told to stand at ease, the orderly remained at attention in the anteroom, surrounded by the Victorian-era bric-a-brac that was the commander’s favored décor. “They claim to have rescued a human from the inner moon, sir. They say—” The orderly glanced down at his reader to the printout of the report to make certain he was recounting everything accurately. “—that they found one live human in a single small vessel on the far side of the moon. Beyond being alive, they cannot testify as to his condition, though they believe it to be marginal.”
“This is preposterous.” As she spoke, Commander Lahtehoja was sealing up the sides of her lightweight duty boots. “Neither we nor the Shaka are missing any personnel, and I would be more than a little upset to learn that all shuttle craft and lifeboats were not accounted for. I know that the level of boredom is high among the crews, but if some people have gone for an unauthorized joyride I am not going to be pleased.”
With each sentence the commander’s voice had diminished. Eyes set front, body stiff and ramrod straight, the orderly knew what that meant. In contrast to others, when Lahtehoja grew quiet it meant she was really angry. When a soldier had to strain to hear the commander’s words, it was time to look for a hole to hide in.
He pivoted sharply to follow her as she exited the commander’s quarters and headed for the bridge, moving with the same long, purposeful, relentless strides that had made her a champion quintathlete in her days at the Academy. Crew they encountered stopped whatever they were doing to snap to attention and salute, gestures that she acknowledged perfunctorily. Anyone who had thought that inspection and survey duty at ill-fated Treetrunk would be a walk through an aerogel had neglected to note the name of the commander currently in charge.
A lift carried them to the auxiliary bridge blister situated on the upper-middle portion of the big ship. Far forward, the immense projection fan of the KK drive dominated the field of vision. With the warship rotated to face the planet, the white-girdled globe of Treetrunk loomed in the view dome.
More salutes and salutations greeted her arrival. Lahtehoja did not move to take her seat but instead strode directly over to confront the officer on duty. Captain Miles vaan Leuderwolk was a paunchy, easygoing career officer who favored a shaved head and imposing beard. For all his rough appearance he was known to laugh frequently and easily. He looked like he should have been spending his days serving lager in a beer garden