Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [98]
“Maybe they’ll just decide we’re not worth it and blow us into our component particles,” Braouk muttered disconsolately. “Weepish wailing worries, cautiously composed caring contemplation, emotive endings.”
Sque winced visibly. Walker was more tolerant. What George thought of the Tuuqalian’s effort was not forthcoming.
“While they might be sufficiently perturbed by our efforts to eliminate us from their inventory,” she pointed out, “I seriously doubt they would feel similarly about something as valuable and significant as this craft that we currently occupy. As to the possibility, Marc, that my work may inadvertently have stymied their efforts at recovery, I should not doubt that they served to confuse inferior beings such as our captors. However, I regret to say that any hope this might be anything more than a temporary impediment to their efforts to recapture us is likely to be misplaced. The Vilenjji may be slow, but they are in their own imperfect fashion quite competent.”
As if to confirm the K’eremu’s analysis of the situation, a groaning sound came from the lock located on the far side of the empty, spherical passenger chamber. The inner lock was being forced. Walker had a bad moment when it occurred to him that the opening of the inner lock did not ensure that the outer lock had been closed. If that was the case, every molecule of atmosphere within the secondary craft would be sucked out into space in a matter of seconds, along with anything else that was not bolted down. Like himself. There was nothing he could do about it now, he knew, except tense up and hold on.
Rising from where he had been resting against the wall, Braouk readied himself for whatever was to come. Unashamedly, his three companions took up positions behind the massive Tuuqalian. Why they did so Walker did not bother to analyze. Certainly they had no chance of fighting their way past any party of well-equipped Vilenjji that had been sent to recapture them. But he was determined to try.
The lock finished cycling. Its inner spiral began to open. As his fingers clenched into fists, he wished for something solid to wrap them around: a rock, a club, something heavy he could swing. Something he could throw. Something he could use to bash purple heads and appendages. Other than sharp invective, there was nothing.
As soon as it had finished cycling, several shapes stepped deliberately through the open lockway. Radiating confidence and alertness, they advanced without hesitation through the spherical passenger chamber in the direction of the forward compartment. One carried instrumentation of a style and type Walker had not seen previously. Of the others, all were obviously armed except for the one who took the lead. Walker’s fingers unclenched, and his lower jaw dropped slightly. Beside him, Sque hissed something too sibilant for his implant to translate. In front of them, Braouk mimed a gesture that was querulous rather than hostile, and whispered something from the Thirty-Fourth Chronicle of Sivina’trou.
The newcomers were not Vilenjji.
“You will come with us, please.” In size, the speaker was little larger than Sque. The confidence it exhibited far exceeded its physique.
You had to hand it to the Vilenjji, Walker conceded. Brutally indifferent and immortal their actions might be, but they sure knew how to build translator implants. He understood clearly every word-sound the alien made. While he was marveling, George was replying.
“Come with you where?”
“To our ship.”
“Your ship?” Walker reflexively glanced back toward the sweeping arc of transparency that was dominated by the imposing exterior of the newly arrived craft. “That would be your ship there, I suppose?”
Two of the aliens looked at each other. They did not have to turn to do so. This was fortunate because their heads were fixed to their bodies. Neckless, they would have been forced to pivot their torsos in order