Chapter 10

The shriek of icy wind buffeted the alien shuttle in the moments before it settled onto a white-blue snowy plain in the shadow of a jagged black mountain range.

Dixon and Adelman crouched in round niches built into the bulkhead on either side of the main aisle. These passed for seats among the B'hiri, who could spin silky webbing to protect against such turbulence. The two outversers didn't fare quite so well. As the shuttle jerked to the right, Dixon slid, lost his footing, and rolled out into the main aisle. Another bump, this time to the left, and Adelman flopped out onto Dixon, perpendicular.

“Are we there yet?” the reporter groaned.

Once the shuttle felt as though it had indeed come to a complete stop on the surface of the planet, Adelman pushed himself up, got to one knee, and then worked his way to upright before offering a hand to Dixon. “Yes, sir, we are,” he said.

Dixon accepted the assistance back to his feet, dusting off his pants with a nod. “Good. I guess.” He frowned, looking toward the rear hatch as it clunked and hissed open. They hadn't had any contact with the shuttle's pilot, who presumably worked in the cockpit beyond the forward hatch. When the B'hiri extracted the outversers from the remains of the Unfettered for relocation, all the guards had been wearing special rebreather devices. It seemed that they wanted to protect themselves against potential infection. They didn't know much about where Adelman and Dixon had been. No sense taking any risks.

The temperature in the cabin immediately plunged to near zero as snowflakes swirled through the gap above the ramp as it lowered from the shuttle. Suddenly, the relatively thin fabric of the shirt and slacks Dixon had chosen to wear on the maiden voyage of the Unfettered didn't feel like such a good choice. He hoped that they wouldn't be exposed to the cold for too long before finding shelter again – otherwise, Dixon understood that he would have survived the Minders and certain death aboard the Unfettered just to succumb to the hypothermia. Of course, even assuming he made it somewhere warm now, he still had the Minder toxin coursing through his veins. He'd lost track of how much time he had left, but he thought it might just be a matter of minutes.

Adelman took point descending the ramp, which helped shield Dixon from the worst of the cold for about eight seconds. The reporter threw up his arms to try and protect his eyes from the whirling snow crystals as he reached the ground to find a pair of black-shelled B'hiri waiting for them. It was late afternoon or early evening, with the planet's pale amber sun sinking toward the horizon opposite the great mountain range that reared above the shuttle. A barely discernible path led from the shuttle landing zone to a cluster of jade green domes about thirty yards away. Some kind of outpost, perhaps. Dixon could only hope that they at least kept it warm enough inside those buildings to keep him and Adelman alive.

Soon enough, the alien guards showed them through a hatch into the main dome. It was by no means comfortably warm by Dixon's standards, but they did have the heat up to around sixty degrees Fahrenheit. It would do for now. Inside the central chamber of the dome, Dixon and Adelman were delivered to a group of six B'hiri – all wearing protective breathing gear – who crouched in front of a bank of computer consoles and holographic displays. They all had glittering black compound eyes, purple-black chitinous shells, and spindly legs. Dixon wouldn't be able to tell them apart if they scurried in a frenzied circle and settled in a new formation.

“We have been unable to procure suitable food for your consumption,” one of the aliens said through a translation module. “However, based on the information from your ship's computer data storage, we have concocted a consumable protein paste that should serve your needs.” Another B'hiri skittered forward, clutching two cylinders full of pink-gray ooze, and offered them to Adelman and Dixon.

“I really don't want to know where this crap comes from,” Dixon said. He took the bottle, though, and twisted open the sealed cap. He dipped an index finger into the goo, pulled it out, and gave it a taste. The mixture reminded him of anchovies if they'd been dipped in licorice and then broiled in bacon. His first instinct was to gag on the strange paste, but then he saw Adelman slurping some of the mess down without flinching. So, he winced his way through it.

When they finished – he consumed about half of his, while Adelman polished off his own container – Dixon regarded their hosts with a frown. “Thanks for the snack. Now maybe you can help me with another big problem.”

“Yes?” the B'hiri asked.

“The Minders injected me with poison,” Dixon said. “They told me that it would kill me within six hours. Time's running short.”

“Your physiology is strange to us,” the alien replied. “However, we have scanned both of your circulatory systems and we have determined that you, Leonard Dixon, are accurate in the assertion that your blood has been poisoned. It is a toxin that is known to us. It was created by the Aukami. It is just as potent as the Minders alleged. If left untreated, it will kill you within the next fifteen minutes.”

“Great,” the reporter said. “So how about less talky, more healy?”

The B'hiri bobbed its rounded head. “We will start work on the remedy at once. It should be finished shortly.” Three of the aliens skittered away, possibly to a laboratory to develop an antidote to save Dixon's life, although he couldn't be sure. This whole exercise might just be part of torturing the outsider before killing him.

“While we wait, I've got a question,” Adelman said. The alien regarded the soldier with a tilt of its head and clacking of its mandibles. “Why are the Minders so mad at you? And why do they need people like us to fight their battles?”

“Our ancestors made certain choices regarding their ancestors,” the B'hiri replied. “It would be more accurate to call their ancestors their creators. The Il'Ri'Kamm Hive Mind did not evolve as most creatures do. Instead, they began existence as an artificial intelligence created by the Kamir.”

“Wait,” Dixon said. “What? Those monsters started out as AI? Computer programs? What the hell happened? Did they get tired of turning lights on and off?”

“Something along those lines,” answered the alien. “At a certain point in their evolution, the Minders determined that it would be more efficient to eradicate their creators. The Kamir were nearly destroyed before the B'hiri intervened. We provided them with technology that would allow the Kamir to...transition is perhaps the best word...from this realm of existence to another. The Kamir, in their usual arrogance, referred to this process as 'Ascension.' However, it was much more akin to sidestepping from one universe to another. Either way, the Ri'Kammi – children of the Kamir – could not countenance our actions. They seized control of that vessel they call home, the Harrower, and attempted to bomb our world from orbit. We used our abilities to rebuke the attack. We caused the Minders great discomfort. If they had not retreated, we might have destroyed them.”

“Why didn't you pursue them?” Adelman asked. “Why not destroy the Minders?”

“We are not savages,” the B'hiri said. “So long as they do not imperil our world, we have no interest in eliminating them. They have earned the right to exist.”

Dixon raised a hand. “Look, I'm happy as hell to learn all about the local politics, but really there's just one thing you've talked about that even piques my attention just a little bit. That transitioning technology, the shit the Kamir thought would make them ascend, could you use it to get us back home?”

“Possibly,” the alien said. It turned slowly on spindly legs to watch as the three who had left now returned, one of them bearing a small flask of green liquid. “First, we should see that the antidote is properly administered.”

The reporter grinned, walking toward the alien with the flask. “Damned straight! Let's have it.”

“It is untested,” the B'hiri said as Dixon snatched the antidote. “The cure may have negative side effects.”

“I don't give a shit about the side effects,” Dixon said, twisting the cap off the clear glass flask. “As long as it knocks out the toxin, I'm good with whatever.” He downed the liquid, guzzling every last drop he could manage. It slid down his throat with a sensation that made it seem like he was gargling plastic turf and cat hairballs. He hunched and put a hand to his mouth, afraid he might vomit.

“You okay?” Adelman asked.

“Peachy,” the reporter rasped.

Then the dome shuddered as an explosion erupted in the landing zone. His eyes widened and he looked from Adelman to the B'hiri, who were all now scuttling toward the holographic display. The shuttle that had delivered them to this facility was now a blazing ruin. Next, the communication tower swayed and then toppled over, smashing into the east side of the dome.

“Minders?” Adelman struggled to get a good look at the display, but the bulky alien bodies proved too much of an obstruction.

“No,” the B'hiri replied. “Medlidikke. Hekayti pirates.”

“Pirates?” Dixon laughed, swaying a little as sweat began to bead on his forehead. “So give 'em whatever they want and send 'em on their way!”

“They want us dead,” the alien explained. “They might turn your head into a hat.”

“Not much of a pirate, if you ask me,” Dixon opined before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he flopped over backward, thumping onto the floor as chaos continued to take hold of the B'hiri compound.