It’s not an Antag ship. Got that. And it’s not human, either. Something huge, invisible, alien, unknown. A lost artifact filled with angry gods or creatures of light? Cosmic zombies or vampires? I try not to let my subconscious get out of control.
Then our link fades. I’m back in the dark. I sniff, sniff again, feel the coolness of the container wall—smooth and dry. If I don’t stretch out my arms and press, I float. The air actually feels fresh, though I can’t tell where it’s coming from. That’s a plus, an offer of hope that we’re not just being executed by slow suffocation. But I’m still thirsty and hungry. Should I be grateful we haven’t eaten since being peeled out of our lobster suits? I haven’t had to fill the can with unseemly stink.
More motion—sideways, swaying, followed by creaks and pops I feel in my ears. Possibly the cans are being sealed off, and the swaying may mean we’re being transferred.
As much as Bird Girl has no interest in keeping us fully informed, I get occasional glimpses of this and that—of two transports entering an opening in empty space, of cans being winched in clusters out of one transport. I try to chuckle at a memory of beach parties on Socotra, beer cans slopping in plastic-strapped six-packs. The chuckle fades into a gurgle.
This is all she sees, all Bird Girl can know. She’s not a pilot, has no connection to the pilots, if this strange, taboo ship can have real pilots. But from what she does convey, it’s obvious the ship is vastly more powerful than either of us has managed to use or create. We’ve both been contained, coached and prepped to go at each other on almost equal footing. How much does equality of tech and knowledge equal a longer, more entertaining war? Who’s been dealt the stronger hand?
Who’s favored?
Bug steward seems irritated by my density. Whoever most pleases the masters of this ancient game.
Gurus? Keepers are the same as Gurus! Bird Girl has been telling me that Antags have Gurus, just like humans—showrunners for their side of our war. Bird Girl’s commanders, her people, have been told that humans want to kill all Keepers—all Gurus—and all Antags and dominate the solar system, while Keepers, like Antags, just want to live in peace. Same story we’ve been fed, but in reverse.
The air in the can becomes close. I can’t simply stop breathing. I need to get out. There’s that damned squeaking again—it’s me, I’m freaking.
Then the can opens like a lunchbox. The lights come up to unbearable brightness and three of the small, bat-wing critters rustle close, wings folded tight, to peer at me. Their four reddish-purple eyes blink. Big Antags are at least four times larger—if the small ones are even Antags and not lackeys or servants. Nobody wants to touch me. I rise from the can and nearly float out, then grip the edge, casual as can be, except that I’m laughing like a maniac. I try with all my willpower to stop. Don’t want to lose it. Not after having survived all that crap—not when there’s finally hope.
I stuff my hand in my mouth and look around.
The cans have been tied down with rubbery gray cords on a brightly illuminated platform. We’re in zero g, surrounded by a space that shades off to warm darkness. Four more of us are released and cling to the edges of the cans or the cords themselves: Borden, DJ, Kumar, Joe. Our sounds echo—retching, crying out, calling names.
Bats pull the rest of the cans up against the first five, tying them to the others with more cords. They’re opened next. Here’s Tak, Ishida, Ishikawa—Jacobi. We’re all in pajama bottoms and nothing more. Jacobi looks cool and collected, but vomit spatters her chest and arms.
Litvinov emerges with a gaunt, haunted look on his lean face. Ulyanova rises from her can with arms crossed. I see Kumar, also covered in vomit. I don’t see Mushran.
Most of the Russians must have died back in the Battle of the Titanian Sea. The two that are still with us, besides Litvinov and Ulyanova, I barely know—a couple of efreitors: one male named Bilyk, the other a female named Yagodovskaya, a few years older than Ulyanova.
Christ almighty. Fourteen, barely a squad. Six are still spewing thin vomit that makes the bat critters shuffle and flap. For some reason, that insane comedy makes me want to cry. But at least I’ve stopped laughing.
Physically I’m okay, but DJ is taking this poorly, as are Ishikawa and Borden. We’ve been through too many changes.
Five of the big Antags watch from the side of the platform. I recognize Bird Girl at the center—same orange and blue colors around the eyes, same blue, raspy tongue. I fix details of Antag appearance in memory—wingspans of about three meters, outer tips sprouting small fingers, more substantial gripping digits on each wing elbow or middle joint—basically two upper sets of hands. The bats seem to have similar arrangements. Beneath a thick tunic, the thorax presents a central breastbone like a turkey’s. Under clinging pantaloons, the lower limbs are short, thick, and tightly muscled, with hands on knees and prehensile feet, mostly covered now in buttoned pockets and flexible booties. Bird Girl would make a great juggler.
The bats gather around Bird Girl like dogs at a hunt. She moves her wing-fingers and issues light, sweet whistles, to which the bats respond by helping mop up the vomit. Everything is hidden in shadow. Antags, bats, us, a couple of transports maybe thirty meters away—surrounded by gloom. No more overtones, no more clues. Bird Girl is no longer broadcasting on our private wavelength. DJ looks pale and serious. At least he’s stopped spewing.
Kumar hangs on to my arm, pushing his face close. “Where are we?” he asks, eyes darting. I hope I’m not surrounded by total loons. Most of the others have been far more isolated than me. Ulyanova stares off into the shadows and doesn’t once look my way.
The bats pry us apart, space us out, then hand us more ropes. After they’ve persuaded us to hang on, they tug and guide us out of the shaded chamber and along a curved tube. The walls of the tube are equipped every few meters with rungs that both big and small Antags use to navigate. The rungs do not seem designed for them but they’re making do. Bird Girl is behind us. This phase of our journey takes about ten minutes. The tube veers sharp left, and we’re pulled through the crimp with hard knocks.
The bats and one of the Antags then tug and shove us into a cubic space like a giant racquetball court, its corners also lost in shadow. All we can see clearly, in the center of the court, is a spherical cage about thirty meters in diameter, made of thick wire mesh and cabled to the side walls.
Some of the bats nicker and whistle, then poke out wing-fingers in sequence. They seem to be counting, maybe counting us. They can count to forty-eight on their fingers, should they be so inclined.
Four Antags enter the court. Bird Girl is again number three in their lineup. Two wear tunics, including Bird Girl. The others are equipped with what could be light armor, covering the breastbone and forming protective collars over the wing-shoulders.
Bird Girl surveys our pitifully reduced group. Her purple-rimmed eyes light on me, and she approaches with evident reluctance, no doubt disgusted by everything about me—certainly by my appearance and smell. Man, have we been primed to be enemies.
I look left down our rope line. We’re all scarred in pink lines and scabs from the removal of the lobster suits but appear to be healing. Ishida’s metal parts are lightly scored but seem intact. I wonder how they knew which parts were hers and which the suit’s.
We half-bob, half-float, hanging on to the rope and to one another. Bird Girl informs us through the translator that all our cuts and bruises were due to the activities of our suits and were not deliberately inflicted by Antag healers—by which she means the bats, not just technical rates but general-duty helpers. She also confirms that we’re going to be kept for the time being in the spherical cage. Her voice through the translator is edged with something like electronic bird sounds—grating, hashy, not at all soothing. But then she adds that these quarters will be temporary. The Antags are presently exploring, hoping to find better living spaces deeper in the ship.