There was a clue, but she was too excited to notice. That carelessness almost cost Swelk her life.
Animals once more fed and groomed, she had returned to the lifeboat to check on the latest data search. There was a wealth of information about Kyle Gustafson, his education, his career history, sessions of the American commission on the Galactics.
The newest file was a video of the American president in loud telephonic argument with his unseen Russian counterpart, trading accusations about the recent midlaunch explosion of an American scientific satellite aboard a Russian rocket. So trivial a cause for so high-level an argument: the relationship between the countries must have become very strained. Kyle Gustafson took no part, standing silently in the background, but his height and reddish hair made him stand out.
Gustafson's mere presence had a staggering implication: his principled resignation had not separated him from his nation's leader. And that must mean Gustafson's concerns about the Galactics received some level of consideration within the American government.
As a loud boom echoed in the cargo hold, she realized she had failed to make a more pressing deduction. "Unlock this door!" shouted Captain Grelben.
She should have wondered why this material had been located by her query. Like the war-strategy session that Rualf had shared, a shouting match between national leaders was unlikely to be waged in public. Which suggested that the meeting that so interested her had also been recorded secretly by one of Rualf's spheres . . .
The shock of realization almost froze her. She had neglected to limit her last request to current broadcast intercepts, and her query must have enlisted the Consensus's main computer. It was easy to guess what had followed: security software spotting the unauthorized data access and tracing the request to the lifeboat's computer, an alarm sent to the duty officer, a call to the captain, the realization of the lifeboat's proximity to the zoo that she tended without supervision.
"Swelk, you freak. Open this hatch now." A loud bang. Animals bellowed in confusion.
Cultural genocide was her species' horrific norm. Physical genocide was not. If the captain and Rualf had done half what Swelk now suspected, she could never be allowed to speak with the authorities on Krulchuk. Keeping her ignorant had been, in a crude way, a kindness—it preserved the option of letting her live. Discovery of Swelk's investigations eliminated her continuance as a viable outcome.
At least the plotters had made one small mistake: coming straight to the cargo hold in a rage without first looking up the hatch-lock override code.
Not that her actions demonstrated better forethought. "Lifeboat. Break communications with the Consensus." What next? Wasn't she trapped as surely as her swampbeasts? No, although she would have been had the Consensus been on the ground. "Can you launch without the cooperation of the main computer?"
"Yes. That is one of my emergency modes."
The pounding and shouting stopped. That meant no one expected her to open the door and someone had gone for the code. She had only seconds—terminals were all over the ship.
"Can you take me to Kyle Gustafson?" The off-limits information whose access had endangered her could also save her.
"Not with certainty. His current position is unknown, but the upload does include his residence and work locations." Swelk wasn't surprised: she had assumed the main computer had been tapped into the Earth's Internet.
She'd have to take the chance.
An unseen hatch crashed against a wall; she heard extremities slapping the cargo-hold floor and oaths of disgust at the animals' smell. A short hall connected the lifeboat bay to the cargo hold; a quick glance showed her that corridor hatch was ajar.
"Emergency departure. Close airlock. Launch."
The lifeboat and its automation could get her down to surface, but she would be stuck where she landed—if she got that far.
She could only hope the confusion aboard the starship equaled her own. Her few preparations for escape to Earth suddenly seemed more fantasies than plans. "Lifeboat. No communications with the Consensus, nor with any of its lifeboats." Her mind's eye pictured a sudden windstorm in the ship she had fled, air streaming from the cargo hold into space through the suddenly gaping lifeboat bay, until the corridor hatch was sucked shut. Poor swampbeasts! "Was anything big blown from the ship?"
"No."
At least her hasty exit had probably not killed anyone.
What could they do beyond following her? She had a moment of panic on recalling the anti-spacejunk defense, then wondered if it would require reprogramming to fire at something moving away from the ship. That was pure speculation, but since she could do nothing about the laser, she might as well assume her theory was correct.
They would track the lifeboat all the way down, and there was nothing she could do about it. Still, observation of an escape attempt was something to which she had given thought: they could not see through clouds, and radar would not reveal what she did on the ground.
It was night in the United States. "Computer, show a weather map centered on Gustafson's home. Indicate nearby safe landing areas." Luck finally favored her; the whole region was clouded.
A landing site selected, she turned to other preparations. There wasn't much time.
The lifeboat broke through a dense bank of fog shrouding the forested and weathered peaks of the Allegheny Mountains. Landing radar and the onboard computer had delivered her with precision between two parallel ridges; the ship settled rapidly into a narrow valley. Gustafson's house was one valley away; the Franklin Ridge National Laboratory, to which Gustafson had returned in official disfavor, and the nearest town, were two valleys farther. The human's likeness, printed from one of the files whose download had exposed her, was in a pocket of the fresh garment she had taken from the lifeboat's stores.
She was belted securely into a padded couch, a squishy bag strapped into the seat next to her. Many shifts spent tending to her Girillian charges had cleansed her of all squeamishness; she doubted she could otherwise have gone through with the ploy with the sack. The bag was filled mostly with materials produced on the way down by the lifeboat's bioconverter. The synthesizer itself, portable of course, was in one of the tote bags she had prepositioned in the airlock for her upcoming quick exit. Without synthesized Krulchukor food, she would starve in a few days—assuming she lasted that long.
"Landing in three-squared, three-squared less one . . . " A console display showed an uneven surface rushing to meet her. Radar reflectivity supposedly proved that the lumpiness was vegetation. She would know soon, one way or another.
She struck with a thump, sliding and bumping along the uneven surface. A landing limb hit something hard. The skid snapped; the ship tipped and went into a roll. The craft finally jolted to rest, its leading edge crumbled around the bole of a tree.
"Open both airlock doors." She may as well confirm reports that Earth's air was breathable. Two doors cycled open; the rough landing had not damaged the lock mechanisms. She released her belts. In standing, she almost collapsed to the deck. The hard landing had badly bruised one of her normally good limbs.
This was taking too long. "Status?"
"Another lifeboat just launched."
One deduction of which Swelk was certain: she would not be chased by Krulirim. They had to expect her to abandon her lifeboat; her pursuers would have to leave their own craft. She took comfort that no human broadcast had ever shown a Krul. Surely they would not reveal themselves now.
And a lifeboat in pursuit, not the Consensus—appreciated, if not surprising, news. She had guessed the bigger ship would not dare to land in this rugged terrain. Launching a lifeboat had meant delay to retrofit teleoperation controls. While she had never seen a F'thk in person, she had watched videos of them among humans—few of the big robots could fit in a lifeboat.
The emergency stores included flares. She ignited one now, shoving the lit end into a drawer packed with flammable supplies. The fire blossomed, heat scorching her weak-limb sector as she hobbled to the open airlock.
Swelk looped the straps of two supply sacks around her torso. She couldn't make good time across the rough ground balanced on only her two strong limbs, especially with one now injured, and her foreshortened limb could never have supported that much weight. And now that crippled extremity had another problem.
The lifeboat had ripped a scar across the valley floor. She remained for two three-cubes of paces within the path of destruction, lest the bulging sacks she dragged leave too obvious a trail from the wreck. The fire grew hotter and brighter as she turned toward the alien woods. A sickening smell followed her. Then the flames must have reached the main fuel tanks, not emptied by the short trip from low Earth orbit. Her last thought, before light and sound and blast overwhelmed her, was a mixture of doubt and hope.
Would the stranger whose picture she carried come, or would she have to find him?