There was the sound of purposeful footsteps and a flutter of light and shadow as Shan moved to the other side of the crate.
"I see it," he said, followed by the sharp snap of the slat being removed.
"Come out, Val Con, do," he added, and Val Con backed out of the crate on his elbows to join his brother at the workbench.
The low-power light had weighed in their decision to store the environmental module in one of the workrooms off of the cargo section. Also, now that it was his, Val Con was more than a little eager to see whatever it was he owned.
"They look like standard data-jacks," Shan said, laying them out on the bench.
Val Con picked up a black box about the size of his palm with whisker-wires bristling along one side.
"What do you suppose this is?"
Shan glanced at it. "Voice box."
"Of course," Val Con murmured.
"If you're satisfied for the moment," Shan said, "I suggest we lash the crate to the floor. Then, I will tend to my own cargo and you, if you'll allow me to express some brotherly concern, will get something to eat and perhaps a nap before Father returns."
It was a good plan—in fact, Val Con thought, as his stomach suddenly rumbled, it was an excellent plan. He said so, and the two of them made quick work of securing the crate. They left the workroom, walking together as far as the main cargo hall, where Val Con turned right, toward the ship's core and the crew cafeteria, and Shan went left, toward his small private cargo space.
* * *
He attempted to open one camera eye; enough to verify that the absorbent field was still in force—and closed it. The camera module worked, which was a grace given the years on it.
Now that there was energy available, and it having been so many years since an inventory had been done, he applied himself single-mindedly to that, thoroughly investigating every file and memory available to him. When that was done, he devised and solved logic problems, and designed airy confections of tri-spatial mathematics. The ability to plot trajectories, which he recalled as a primary function, was not immediately available to him. He supposed that Roderick Spode had removed the function, but had not cared to likewise remove his memory of it. Such minor cruelty matched his memory of the man.
He was doing his twelfth careful and complete inventory when something . . .changed.
It was subtle, not immediately definable, and scarcely had he noted it than it was driven from his attention by another, and not at all subtle, alteration in his condition.
He could . . . hear.
Small rustling sounds, that was what he heard, each one so precious that he shunted them immediately to core memory, attached to the recording of his astonished joy.
The rustling intensified, sharpening into static, which was interrupted by a heavy thump, and the mutter of—had that been a voice? A word?
Another thump, a crescendo of rustling, and—yes, it was a voice. And the word?
"Damn!"
Spoken with emotion, that word. But which emotion? Anger? Exultation? Disappointment? His own emotions were in a frenzy. By Deep Space Itself, he need to—
To see.
A scene swung into being before his newly opened eyes. A bench, on which he—or rather, whatever housed him at present—rested. Ahead, a wall of tools, some familiar, behind sealed transparent doors, an insulated utility apron and mitts
hanging on the right.
To his right and rear, three crates of varying sizes were lashed to the floor. Directly behind him another crate was similarly lashed, and largely disassembled, half-obscured by a sheet of what was surely a signal-deadening wrap. To his immediate left—his liberator: unkempt dark hair, thin wrists overreaching the cuffs of a rumpled sweater, long fingers moving surely along the connections of what could be a voice-box.
"Where's the port, then?" The voice was soft; the words intelligible after the lexicon function sorted it. Liaden. That might be. . .unfortunate. And, yet—
"Yes!" Exultation was clear.
"Yes!" he echoed, his own exultation somewhat tempered by the cheap portable unit. The clever fingers tightened on the box, as the dark head turned toward him. Bright green eyes considered him seriously from behind tumbled bangs.
A child, he thought, amazed. His liberator was—a child.
"Are you all right?" another voice asked.
His eyes were tight-focused, he realized, and made the adjustment, zooming out until the entire small space was elucidated to him. The child had a companion—taller, white-haired. A parent, perhaps, or a parent's parent.
"Why shouldn't I be all right?" the child asked this taller companion, with perhaps a touch of impatience. "I've bumped my knee before."
"And I've dropped heavy objects on my thumb before," the companion retorted. "That doesn't mean it won't bruise, or doesn't hurt."
"I suppose," the child said dismissively, then suddenly turned more fully toward the other. "Your thumb isn't broken, is it, Shan?"
"No, it's not broken; only bruised. I've had worse doing cargo-shifting with Master Ken Rik. You hit that knee pretty sternly, however, and steel plate isn't the most forgiving surface."
"It's all right," the child said again.
"You should have let it fall," the taller one insisted.
"No, I couldn't have done that; suppose we'd broken it?"
"Whatever it is. Well. What else are we doing this shift, Brother? Or is liberating a so-called environmental unit from its muffle the awful whole?"
"I don't think," the child said slowly, looking down at the voice-box in his hand. "That is—it may not be an environmental unit."
"You amaze me. What might it be, then?"
"I don't know," the child confessed. "I researched the serial number in the manual archives, back a dozen-dozen years. Either the number was mis-transcribed . . ."
"Or it's contraband," the white-haired one said.
The child looked down at the box in his hand. There were slider controls along the side, which he manipulated.
"This isn't a very good voder," he said. "We ought to find better."
"We? This was your idea, as I recall it. What if it is contraband, Val Con?"
The child frowned. "I don't know. It was exactly this—whatever it is, as you say—that my . . . hunch led me to. I haven't been led to harm by a hunch before."
"Unless you count getting thoroughly soaked and scratched bloody."
"Merlin was frightened. And he likes to get wet even less than you do."
The white-haired—brother?—sighed.
"If there's anything else this shift, let's get to it, shall we? I'd like to get some sleep and you—"
"I only need to make a data connection," the child said rapidly. "The work of a moment. You go, Brother; I can do this."
"Certainly you can. I, however, will remain, as witness. Also, if Father decides to space you, I had rather be at your side, for how I would explain it to Mother, I have no idea."
The child laughed, a merry sound, and picked up a length of cable.
He looked at it hungrily. Data. Information. Input.
"If you don't mind sharing, what data are you connecting it to?"
"Since there is no manual, I follow standard protocols for re-servicing: Power, input, information," the child Val Con said, leaning close and making a connection in the unit that housed him with an audible snap. "As we said—it is possible that this is not an environmental unit at all, but . . . something other. That being so, I thought the best, broadest, and least perilous source of information is the ship's library."
His elder tipped his head, holding up a hand as the nether end of the cable approached the data-board.
"Only the ship's library."
"Yes."
"All right, then; have at it."
The child nodded, and seated the plug.
Had he been human, he would have drawn a breath.
Since he was not, he opened access to surface caches and allowed the data to flow.