Our communications system appears to be damaged. I am receiving no response from you. Jaldark, please come in.You need to effect repairs so that we can communicate.
Jaldark, please come in.
Jaldark, respond.
Please.
Tlaimon Kassant sipped a cup of hot
jiksn
. He had the late shift, the solitary shift, and he liked it that way. His people were known for their close-knit bonds and love of socialization, but Tlaimon was considered unusual in that he preferred his own company for a few hours every day. He considered his âoddityâ a boon, as he was paid twice as much for being willing to go the entire night by himself. Most Intarians liked to work in huddled groups.
All alone for the night. What a pleasant thing. Easy job, too; watching the monitor for things that seldom happened. Most ships communicated their arrival long beforethey showed up on the monitor. They were always eager to get to Intar. It wasnât as well known in the quadrant as Risa, admittedly, but then, what planet was?
Tlaimon stretched the retractable tentacles that served as arms for the Intarians and lazily brought the gaze of his multifaceted eyes toward the screen.
The cup of
jiksn
fell to the padded floor unheeded and bounced twice. Its contents formed a pool of sticky lavender fluid. Tlaimon swore a deep oath under his breath, while his two hearts raced with fear at what the screen revealed.
Something large was approaching the city from space. It was several million kilometers away, but it was closing fast. Too fast for comfort. He adjusted the controls swiftly, his tentacles more deft than any humanoidâs clumsy digits.
Tlaimon could see the outline now. A ship of some kind, though the computer kept flashing that most frustrating of words, âUnknown,â on the screen. It was long and spiky and promised destruction if it continued on its trajectory.
Tlaimon quickly hit the button that would translate his message in every language known to the Federation.
âAttention, alien vessel,â he said in a voice that trembled. âYou are on a collision course with a major population center of our planet. Adjust your course to bearing one-four-seven mark eight, and you will avoid impact.â
The ship didnât change its position one millimeter.Either it was unaware of the impending disasterâfor surely it would be destroyed upon striking the planet if it continued at its present speedâor else its crew didnât care.
Unpleasant scenarios crowded Tlaimonâs mind. Was this a suicide run? A dreadful first strike that would mean war?
Who would possibly want to make war on us?
Tlaimon thought wildly.
There was nothing else for it. Trembling, Tlaimon extended a tentacle and tapped the white button that would alert the government that a disaster was descending upon the capital city of Verutak, with all the inevitability of dusk at the end of the day.
Jaldark, what is going on? I have heard nothing from you. Everything appears to be intact, and yet we remain unable to communicate. Please respond. Please attend to the communication damage.
Are you still receiving this? Jaldark?
Bartholomew Faulwell smiled to himself as he took the items from the replicator. What he was doing had become, over time, a ritual of sorts. He took the crisp, off-white paper, enjoying the feel of it in his hand; picked up the smooth pen filled with just the right shade of black-blue ink. Sometimes, if he wasnât careful, the ink would stain the tip of the third finger on his right hand. It brought him an uncommon rush of pleasure whenever he chanced to look upon that smudge before it wore off, because itreminded him of the ritual, and the ritual brought him closer to Anthony Mark.
Of course, there was no convenient way of getting the actual letters to Anthony. Once Faulwell had composed them, had gotten the words exactly right, heâd read them aloud into a subspace message and,
poof
, off it would go. It was impersonal,
Jaldark, please come in.
Jaldark, respond.
Please.
Tlaimon Kassant sipped a cup of hot
jiksn
. He had the late shift, the solitary shift, and he liked it that way. His people were known for their close-knit bonds and love of socialization, but Tlaimon was considered unusual in that he preferred his own company for a few hours every day. He considered his âoddityâ a boon, as he was paid twice as much for being willing to go the entire night by himself. Most Intarians liked to work in huddled groups.
All alone for the night. What a pleasant thing. Easy job, too; watching the monitor for things that seldom happened. Most ships communicated their arrival long beforethey showed up on the monitor. They were always eager to get to Intar. It wasnât as well known in the quadrant as Risa, admittedly, but then, what planet was?
Tlaimon stretched the retractable tentacles that served as arms for the Intarians and lazily brought the gaze of his multifaceted eyes toward the screen.
The cup of
jiksn
fell to the padded floor unheeded and bounced twice. Its contents formed a pool of sticky lavender fluid. Tlaimon swore a deep oath under his breath, while his two hearts raced with fear at what the screen revealed.
Something large was approaching the city from space. It was several million kilometers away, but it was closing fast. Too fast for comfort. He adjusted the controls swiftly, his tentacles more deft than any humanoidâs clumsy digits.
Tlaimon could see the outline now. A ship of some kind, though the computer kept flashing that most frustrating of words, âUnknown,â on the screen. It was long and spiky and promised destruction if it continued on its trajectory.
Tlaimon quickly hit the button that would translate his message in every language known to the Federation.
âAttention, alien vessel,â he said in a voice that trembled. âYou are on a collision course with a major population center of our planet. Adjust your course to bearing one-four-seven mark eight, and you will avoid impact.â
The ship didnât change its position one millimeter.Either it was unaware of the impending disasterâfor surely it would be destroyed upon striking the planet if it continued at its present speedâor else its crew didnât care.
Unpleasant scenarios crowded Tlaimonâs mind. Was this a suicide run? A dreadful first strike that would mean war?
Who would possibly want to make war on us?
Tlaimon thought wildly.
There was nothing else for it. Trembling, Tlaimon extended a tentacle and tapped the white button that would alert the government that a disaster was descending upon the capital city of Verutak, with all the inevitability of dusk at the end of the day.
Jaldark, what is going on? I have heard nothing from you. Everything appears to be intact, and yet we remain unable to communicate. Please respond. Please attend to the communication damage.
Are you still receiving this? Jaldark?
Bartholomew Faulwell smiled to himself as he took the items from the replicator. What he was doing had become, over time, a ritual of sorts. He took the crisp, off-white paper, enjoying the feel of it in his hand; picked up the smooth pen filled with just the right shade of black-blue ink. Sometimes, if he wasnât careful, the ink would stain the tip of the third finger on his right hand. It brought him an uncommon rush of pleasure whenever he chanced to look upon that smudge before it wore off, because itreminded him of the ritual, and the ritual brought him closer to Anthony Mark.
Of course, there was no convenient way of getting the actual letters to Anthony. Once Faulwell had composed them, had gotten the words exactly right, heâd read them aloud into a subspace message and,
poof
, off it would go. It was impersonal,
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