Chapter 9

Leonard Dixon considered himself a scion of a privileged and advanced civilization.

He grew up in the decades before the middle of the 27th Century taking for granted the common access that all middle-income citizens had to the Infomatrix, including the neural implants for instant linking and the fully interactive fictions that he used to lose himself in as a kid.

Human cloning wasn't just possible, it was profitable for companies like Embryonix to create specialized workers, concubines, and warriors. It just wasn't legal anymore, not since the Lunites pitched their tantrum and won their independence.

Most diseases were curable or, at the very least, manageable. People on Earth tended to live to a ripe old age of 125 with rudimentary medical care.

But he'd never seen anything like what the B'hiri had just done to the Unfettered. By all rights, he understood that even if the stress of the sudden stop hadn't torn the ship apart, he and Adelman should have been rendered to a gooey paste. The inertial dampeners hadn't been online. However, the B'hiri technology held it together long enough to rapidly disassemble the craft, suspend the occupants in mid-air, and then build a cell around them out of what used to be the Unfettered.

Now, they impressed him again. A holographic image of a large, spider-like creature materialized in the middle of the cell. The alien appeared in a sickly red haze with glittering black compound eyes, bristly mandibles, and six spindly legs. When it spoke, it did so using a synthesized male voice in what sounded like Terran Standard.

“We have analyzed the information stored in your vessel's memory banks, assimilating as much as we can of your linguistic traits for purposes of translation,” the B'hiri said. “Please respond affirmatively if you understand what I am saying.”

Adelman shuddered at the sight of the alien, but gave a slow nod. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Crystal clear,” Dixon agreed. “Look, now that you can hear what we're saying: We don't have a quarrel with you people. The Hive Minders put us up to it. They pretty much killed everybody else aboard until we agreed to do this.”

“That is a familiar method that we have come to expect from them,” the B'hiri replied. “You have been no more successful than your predecessors in this endeavor.”

The journalist nodded, although he felt a slight sting of wounded pride at the tone of condescension he detected in the alien's statement. “Well, neither of us is much of a pilot. We did the best we could with what we had.” He looked across the hologram at the soldier, shrugging. “Anyway, that's all behind us. We're really sorry for the trouble. We'd like nothing better than to go home now.”

A few moments of silence, and then the B'hiri said: “We have studied your navigational charts. Your origin world is not within our immediate galactic vicinity. Further, some among the B'hiri are unconvinced that you acted under duress. It has been deemed prudent to take you into custody until such time as we are satisfied that you represent no harm to our world.”

“How does holding us solve anything?” Dixon asked, huffing. “We don't want to go back to the Minders, naturally, but if you could give us transport to a neutral outpost of some kind, maybe, where we can find someone who WILL take us to Earth...”

“We will take your request under advisement,” the alien said. “Until then, you will remain guests of the B'hiri.”

“Guests, huh?” the reporter inquired. “Well, how about whipping us up some sandwiches and a toilet cubicle? We haven't eaten since before leaving Citadel and I'm pretty sure you turned the john into a birdbath or something.”

“Food will be provided after you are transferred to more suitable lodgings on the planet,” the holographic B'hiri answered. Then the image flickered before fading out of view.

“That went better than it could have, with you doing the talking,” Adelman said. “I figured they'd kill us on the spot to save themselves all the trouble.”

Dixon nodded, a rueful smile on his face. “I'm just as surprised as you are.”