call them?”
They register to the description of Kapellans, an alien sentient bipedal species native to a star system near the one which humans once referred to in the common Terran usage as Kapella. However, according to all current information in my data banks, their presence in this sector of space is anomalous, therefore —He halted abruptly midphrase.
The ship shifted like a great animal beneath them. Bach rolled slightly in the air. Paisley lunged out with a hand to steady herself. The watch call echoed above them, three short chimes, one long one, and a brief spoken phrase.
Vectoring to window, sang Bach. Thou desirest estimate?
“Yes.”
I transpose. Window transition will occur in twelve minutes.
“What’s for eating?” Paisley’s attempt at a calm voice failed. She had shrunk against the wall, one hand tugging her shift in an unconscious gesture down over her wildly patterned knees.
“We’re going over,” said Lily grimly. “I can’t have been out that long. They must have got to Tagalong. Hoy. They must have power.”
“We on ya road?” Paisley’s eyes widened. “I never thought.”
Bach sank down to the grey floor next to Lily.
You mentioned them before. She put a hand on his cold metal surface. “Kapellans.” She tried the word slowly in speech.
“What?” Paisley pushed herself upright and walked across the cell to sit beside Lily.
“Imperial class ship,” Lily muttered. “Anomalous. This sector—sector?—of space. Therefore what, Bach?”
Therefore data doth not compute. Thou wilst find nevertheless that it alone fits the required specifications.
There was a silence. Paisley pulled a comb out from her mass of braids and, unraveling a slender plait near one ear, combed the hair out, a cupped hand holding loosed beads, and began braiding it again.
“What happened after we were all in the lock?” asked Lily.
“See,” said Paisley, her deft fingers unslacking in their task, “we was all on, so I stopped fussing and started looking. Ya boyos didna like me much. They let me go and herded me, much as they could. Just corridors, smaller’n Station. Closed doors. I counted, though. I could scam us out easy as frilled back, honest lock. Didna hear naught. Saw three of ya boyos in different clothes off to one place. None more. They tossed us here. Bit later we hooked off from Station. Noisy, that. And here we be.”
Bach’s description was more detailed, if about as succinct. He had monitored color changes, heat patterns, sound referents, He had found one clue: using his internal lights he shone a map of the ship on the grey floor. Paisley oohed gratifyingly and traced their route for Lily. Bach, diverted, complimented her on her sense of direction.
And? prompted Lily.
Here. (A green light.) Through one closed hatchway not immune to heat sense awareness —he began to digress on Kapellan optical sensory evolution; Lily cut off this variation— was a human pattern.
Then these Kapellans aren’t human?
Negative.
And this pattern?
Definitely human. Enclosed in such a cell, seemingly, as thou and I and the child.
You can sense through this seal? She looked to the seam in the grey wall.
Certainly. I am, as thou seest, equipped to mimic most sentient sensing patterns, in this case infrared heat patterning.
Is anyone out there? Lily stood abruptly, walked over to the seam.
Negative.
She turned and walked to the other side of the cell, walked back.
“What you be talking about?” Paisley demanded.
“We’re being held by aliens, who are evidently called Kapellans. And I believe the man I’m seeking is on board this ship, too.”
The ship jolted; chimes echoed above. Paisley fell forward. Bach rolled almost half over, and he began to sing an incomprehensible melody. Lily kept her feet.
They went through.
She saw the kata whole. The moves branched out in a lattice into infinity, but simultaneously came to rest at their beginning—finite circle of endlessness. The
They register to the description of Kapellans, an alien sentient bipedal species native to a star system near the one which humans once referred to in the common Terran usage as Kapella. However, according to all current information in my data banks, their presence in this sector of space is anomalous, therefore —He halted abruptly midphrase.
The ship shifted like a great animal beneath them. Bach rolled slightly in the air. Paisley lunged out with a hand to steady herself. The watch call echoed above them, three short chimes, one long one, and a brief spoken phrase.
Vectoring to window, sang Bach. Thou desirest estimate?
“Yes.”
I transpose. Window transition will occur in twelve minutes.
“What’s for eating?” Paisley’s attempt at a calm voice failed. She had shrunk against the wall, one hand tugging her shift in an unconscious gesture down over her wildly patterned knees.
“We’re going over,” said Lily grimly. “I can’t have been out that long. They must have got to Tagalong. Hoy. They must have power.”
“We on ya road?” Paisley’s eyes widened. “I never thought.”
Bach sank down to the grey floor next to Lily.
You mentioned them before. She put a hand on his cold metal surface. “Kapellans.” She tried the word slowly in speech.
“What?” Paisley pushed herself upright and walked across the cell to sit beside Lily.
“Imperial class ship,” Lily muttered. “Anomalous. This sector—sector?—of space. Therefore what, Bach?”
Therefore data doth not compute. Thou wilst find nevertheless that it alone fits the required specifications.
There was a silence. Paisley pulled a comb out from her mass of braids and, unraveling a slender plait near one ear, combed the hair out, a cupped hand holding loosed beads, and began braiding it again.
“What happened after we were all in the lock?” asked Lily.
“See,” said Paisley, her deft fingers unslacking in their task, “we was all on, so I stopped fussing and started looking. Ya boyos didna like me much. They let me go and herded me, much as they could. Just corridors, smaller’n Station. Closed doors. I counted, though. I could scam us out easy as frilled back, honest lock. Didna hear naught. Saw three of ya boyos in different clothes off to one place. None more. They tossed us here. Bit later we hooked off from Station. Noisy, that. And here we be.”
Bach’s description was more detailed, if about as succinct. He had monitored color changes, heat patterns, sound referents, He had found one clue: using his internal lights he shone a map of the ship on the grey floor. Paisley oohed gratifyingly and traced their route for Lily. Bach, diverted, complimented her on her sense of direction.
And? prompted Lily.
Here. (A green light.) Through one closed hatchway not immune to heat sense awareness —he began to digress on Kapellan optical sensory evolution; Lily cut off this variation— was a human pattern.
Then these Kapellans aren’t human?
Negative.
And this pattern?
Definitely human. Enclosed in such a cell, seemingly, as thou and I and the child.
You can sense through this seal? She looked to the seam in the grey wall.
Certainly. I am, as thou seest, equipped to mimic most sentient sensing patterns, in this case infrared heat patterning.
Is anyone out there? Lily stood abruptly, walked over to the seam.
Negative.
She turned and walked to the other side of the cell, walked back.
“What you be talking about?” Paisley demanded.
“We’re being held by aliens, who are evidently called Kapellans. And I believe the man I’m seeking is on board this ship, too.”
The ship jolted; chimes echoed above. Paisley fell forward. Bach rolled almost half over, and he began to sing an incomprehensible melody. Lily kept her feet.
They went through.
She saw the kata whole. The moves branched out in a lattice into infinity, but simultaneously came to rest at their beginning—finite circle of endlessness. The
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