May 22, 2440 – 9:40 AM CST
The Kalnareth had once been a low-priority bulk hauler, running cargo between distant stations. Now it carried one hundred twenty thousand eight hundred and two V’ren lives in the balance. Her hull was mostly intact, held together with shielding where the plating had been ripped away too badly for repairs. Heat rolled off her into the Missouri morning to the point localized weather effects were being noted. Water was already being produced and used to suppress localized ground fires. She had been a proud ship and still functioned, but her back was broken and she would never lift again.
A party of humans sat in what T’mari was pretty sure was called a pickup truck. She watched them and was pretty sure they were watching the ship. Low voices could be heard, but without more directional microphones, which would be obvious and potentially seen as hostile, she couldn’t make out exactly what was being said.
She made one last adjustment to the calibration figures and the voices became more clear and distinct, good enough for the translator. She gave it another minute to be sure and the graph remained flat, meaning it was as good as it was going to get. She ordered it to begin the fabrication cycle of the gen 1 version 8 translator as she tossed the v4 through v7 into the bin for recycling.
“How’s your leg?” T’monn asked, looking at her daughter, hard at work for several minutes before she decided to speak.
“Still attached. Still angry,” T’mari said, flinching as she heard the cooling hull creak the same way the support member had just before it buckled and broke, impaling her leg to the deck and killing Estan and P’lar. She closed her eyes and breathed through the pain and told herself she was lucky to be alive.
“And you should be off it,” T’Monn said, her usual blend of authority and maternal wrath sharpening the words. Her gaze flicked toward the inner cabin, where her younger daughter reviewed atmospheric data. She had given L’tani the task to keep her from spiraling; grief had its own gravity.
T’mari smirked. “You would’ve limped off a battlefield with two broken legs and a datapad under each arm.”
“Three datapads,” T’Monn corrected. “And one head wound added in for the history records. Now let me see it,” she said, kneeling down to watch her stand. She had heard about the humans and their skin taboos and wondered what they would think of her eldest daughter going around in nothing but her underwear for a day and a half to keep from bleeding on her last clean uniform. She remembered T’mari telling her that appearances were important, like a spotless white uniform actually mattered when you had just been through a battle. “You haven’t bled in hours and the wound is closed both front and back. You can put your pants back on.”
Both groups waited for the heat radiating off the hull to dissipate. The hull creaked again and T’mari winced.
“What are they saying?” K’rem asked, laying a steadying hand on T’mari’s shoulder, recognizing the wince for what it was.
T’mari leaned forward, voice steady and analytical. “Speculating about our next move as best as I can tell. That man, front left, is their leader. Not active military, but he looks like a lot of combat veterans I’ve seen. He’s in charge, but doesn’t need to prove it.”
K’rem placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Seen that look before?”
“I have,” she said with a short laugh. “Reminds me of W’ren,” she added casually, waving off the comparison with mock airiness, earning a chuckle from her mother and the others nearby.
Her datapad beeped as she pulled on her boots. T’mari retrieved five sleek black translator units. “Five translators,” she said, handing them out one by one. “Mapped to regional syntax and phonemic patterns. Linked to monitoring; feedback should help us calibrate better for the next batch.”
She slung the sixth unit around her neck, slipped in the earpiece, and checked the interface. “Let’s go.”
No matter what else happened here today she was proud of these. There had been a fourteen-hour initial design that took her six more hours to get a fabrication unit for because that tight ass Q’pic couldn’t prioritize worth a shit. What do we need gadgets for when there is work to be done. It wasn’t like four thousand of these weren’t just laying idle while there was work she couldn’t do. K’rem had to step in, a good thing too, she had been on the verge of shoving Q’pic in a bio-recycler without him actually being dead.
K’rem’s voice shifted into command mode. “M’Rak get ready with ground prep. If these humans are willing to give us this empty ground I want those tents going up within the hour.
“And if they’re not?” T’Monn asked, her tone flat but not unfeeling.
K’rem met her gaze. “Then we’ll know quickly.”
He glanced toward her surgical case as she checked her scalpel settings with deliberate calm.
“Either way,” he said, “we go down there as guests, uninvited, but hopefully not unwelcome.”
