String Theory_ Cohesion (Book 1) - Jeffrey Lang [16]
How would his passengers—even his crew—react if they knew the ship’s engines had stalled, that they were now reliant on the goodwill of strangers to get them on their way? He would like to think that most of them would understand, that they had always understood, how slim their chances of success really were, but only Ziv and his hara knew the entire truth. Most of his passengers believed they had only to be patient, to remain calm, and they would be delivered to a new world, a clean world, where they could begin their lives anew. If only this were true, the captain thought.
Jara adjusted their flight path so that they were now pointed at the alien vessel and skillfully guided the shuttle into a smooth, slow, unthreatening arc toward the rear of the ship’s large primary hull.
“What do you think?” Ziv clicked to the hara.
Jara, preoccupied with his task, had no words to spare, but made an appreciative noise. Mol, ever the most verbose of the quint, said, “It looks more like a living thing than a vessel, like something that should live in deep water.”
Shet asked, “Their captain said this tiny thing could tow our ship?” He shook his head in wonder. “I am not sure I believe them, but why would they lie to us?”
“To lull us into a trap?” Mol wondered aloud. “To trick us into letting them on our transport and plundering it?”
“Plunder what?” Shet asked. “Dried beans? The kilotons of steel and plastic we’ll use as shelters when we land?”
“If they were going to fight us,” Shet observed, “they would have done so by now. If their ship is as powerful as its captain claims, they could have destroyed us ten times over already. These people are not warriors—they are explorers.”
“And now they wish to explore us,” Ziv said, then turned to Diro, the youngest of the hara. “You have been silent, Diro,” Ziv said. “Nothing to offer?”
Stirring in his chair, uncrossing then recrossing his long legs, Diro remarked, “I was thinking about how calm we all are being. We are…these are visitors from the stars and we act like the hara down the lane has dropped in for a light lunch and a swim.”
“There have been other visitors from the stars,” Shet said. “They are not the first.”
“They are the first in a very long time,” Diro countered. “And the first who lived.”
“We will not speak of this to the aliens,” Ziv said sharply. Then, softening his tone, he said, “As harat, I ask that none of you speak to them unless I give permission.” He was certain the rest of the quint was already in agreement, but he felt that the formality was required. Each of the hara clicked their assent.
With agreement reached, Diro asked, “Did you contact the rih-hara-tan with details of our situation?”
“I sent a message,” Ziv said, secretly glad that the time lag made conversations impossible. Sem—the tribe’s spiritual leader—would undoubtedly have taken the opportunity to insinuate that the problems Ziv’s ship was experiencing were entirely the captain’s fault. “The rih-hara-tan will contact the Emergency Council. It will take time for them to reach a consensus and respond. By the time they do, I hope we will be back under way.”
“And if these strangers wish to visit our home?” Diro asked.
Turning to look at his youngest haran, he held up the hand with the sore and asked, “Why would anyone wish to visit Monorha?” Diro reached up and touched the bandaged patch on his own throat and, beside him, Shet unconsciously touched the still-raw scar tissue on his face.
“I see your point,” Diro said.
Jara guided the shuttle closer to the ship’s curved primary hull and skimmed close to the skin. Ziv detected a faint blue glow at the upper range of his vision