The device, resembling a compact computer, in Misha's hands beeped briefly. Alvar, tugging at his T-shirt to cover his bare back, turned halfway around. His inexperienced assistant peered at the device's screen, biting his lower lip.
"Is it bad?" Jensen asked.
"Let's say it can't be removed without surgery. And I," he rolled his neck, "as you know, am not a surgeon."
"And not a pilot, not a soldier, and I think the list doesn't end there," the Runner twitched his cheek. "How bad is it?"
"You can see for yourself," Misha turned the PDA screen toward him. The former soldier looked at the white schematic of structures, resembling a human skeleton. And the sprawling, like shrub roots, reddish tissue entwining some parts of the bones.
"I'm no medic either," the Runner admitted. "I understand that the beacon somehow attached to my body. The doctors I've met said it can't be removed without killing me or making me a cripple."
"Probably that's the case," the guy agreed. "At least under our conditions."
"Means we won't waste time," Alvar decided. "We tried, it didn't work. We need to plan an exit while the Wraith haven't shown up. Maybe your people can help me. We need to get to them."
"Cool it, my impulsive friend," Misha requested. "We," he emphasized the word with his voice, "won't go or fly anywhere while that thing in you is active."
"Afraid the Wraith will follow? Reasonable."
"Returning home with two hives and a bunch of Wraith on our tail isn't how I planned to end this mission," Misha confessed. He cast a quick glance at the virtual screen. Assured that the red dots still weren't appearing, the guy noticeably calmed down.
His nervousness betrayed inexperience.
Not in terms of personality, but in handling the available technologies. He knew how to shoot and clearly did it well. But as if he hadn't held a weapon in his hands for a very long time. Or his pistol was unfamiliar to him.
With the ship it was about the same—he knew how to use it, but did so uncertainly. As if he lacked practice. Or, worse, he'd never piloted such a craft before.
In other circumstances, Jensen would never have trusted such a person. But it seemed his choices were limited. He sincerely hoped that even a simpleton with such a ship would find a new solution.
And it seemed to have ripened already. But not in the "pilot's" mind, but in the Runner's own.
"What if we go all out?" Jensen asked. "We'll get to the Ancestors' Ring, dial your world's address, call your comrades for help. If we had a dozen ships like this, we'd break through fighting. And if infantry with such weapons supports us," he nodded at the energy pistol lying on the floor, "the Wraith won't have a chance."
"Won't work," Misha said.
"Why?"
"Because we won't contact anyone until we solve our problem and get off this planet."
"What if we can't?"
"Then I know a group of people who'll be very unhappy with my failure," Misha smirked.
"They could help you?"
"No. We have... complicated relations. Let's call it that."
"Clear," the former soldier summed up. "So we're at a dead end."
"I didn't say that," the guy objected. "We have an option."
"I suggested you leave and lead the Wraith away," Alvar reminded. "You refused. Now we're just wasting time when we could have already."
"Listen, my hasty friend," the new acquaintance's voice had categorical notes. "I need to get off this planet as far as possible no less than you. And believe me, the reasons are very serious. But we're stuck until we deal with your transmitter. We can only leave here together. If you're in a hurry, I'll drop you on the first planet we find—but after we leave Sudaria."
"You meant Dagan," Alvar corrected. "This planet is called Dagan."
He didn't dwell on the reasons why his interlocutor wasn't willing to take risks. Everyone had their reasons. Apparently, Misha wasn't planning to leave him to the Wraith's mercy. Likely, he thought that when the Runner was caught (and sooner or later it would happen), he'd tell about him, his weapons, and ship. Technologies of this level weren't just a threat to the Wraith—a direct call to exterminate the race that built them.
On Alvar's planet, people had learned to split the atom, built weapon factories, manufactured space fighters to resist the Wraith during the next culling. But they couldn't oppose even one hive ship when it started shelling them from orbit.
They fought desperately, to the last drop of blood, to the last pilot, gunner, fighter—but it didn't stop the Wraith. If they'd had more time, maybe there would have been more fighters and the enemy's Darts wouldn't have rained down on them like fire from the heavens.
"I won't argue about planet names," Misha waved his hand, unrolling some wire and trying to cut it with the blade. Quite logically, it didn't work. The class of metal used in it precluded that. "Um... Help?"
"You have another plan to get rid of this thing in my back?"
"I planned to do it from the start, but hoped it hadn't spread that much yet," the new acquaintance explained. "Need two pieces of wire about this length."
He spread his palms about twenty to twenty-five centimeters apart.
"Easy," Alvar agreed. "Give me the knife."
Grabbing the weapon by the blade, Misha handed it back as requested. Jensen, turning the lower part of the handle, slightly lifted the cover, then threaded the wire through the revealed through-hole. Turning the end of the handle, he cut the wire with the sharp edges hidden when the weapon was in one position. Then repeated the process.
"Done."
"Excellent. Now return the knife."
Tossing the weapon in his hand so the handle pointed forward, the Runner shared the blade.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching as Misha, flipping his compact computer, pried off the back cover with the blade and snapped it off. Exactly snapped it off, not pried or opened.
It seemed he barely understood the technologies he used.
"The transmitter implanted in your back transmits a signal in subspace."
"What's that?"
"Subspace?" Misha clarified, not distracting from his work—he was removing the PDA's internals and laying them out beside him.
"Exactly. My people had chronicles that the Ancestors once built ships that flew in hyperspace," Jensen explained, watching as Misha scanned the parts of the first device with the second. "My people hoped to uncover that secret, but we didn't have time."
"You seem to have been quite advanced," Misha noted, smiling when the device beeped near one of the other PDA's parts.
Resembling a rectangular battery used in his world to power small devices, it had two protruding contacts on opposite sides. And to these contacts, clearly with opposite charges, Misha was now screwing the free ends of the wires.
"We achieved quite a few scientific discoveries since the last culling," Jensen confessed. "They considered us a big threat."
"Did they take your kin?"
"First they destroyed everything on my planet. Gathered those they could, the rest were killed during capture."
"I thought the Wraith don't kill people," Misha admitted. "No offense, but it's impractical for those who feed on people."
"And dangerous to leave anyone alive. A civilization can restore its potential and become more dangerous after they go into hibernation. Though, their hibernation didn't protect us. The chronicles claimed the Wraith don't come to our planet during their hibernation, but they came."
"That hive hunting you?"
"Apparently, yes."
"Was there only one hive?" Interest sounded genuine in the guy's voice.
"They had many Darts."
"I get that. But see, each hive has a queen who keeps at least a few cruisers to protect the hive ship. As far as I know, they prefer to stick together. You saw it yourself when the second hive arrived."
"Well, the first one didn't have those cruisers," the Runner repeated. "Your words about queens match our chronicles. However, I didn't see a queen on board. The commander spoke on her behalf, and he ran everything there."
"I'm just keeping the conversation going," the interlocutor spread his hands. "You know, we have a not-so-simple procedure ahead. I'd like us to trust each other at least a little. And talking is the best way to build mutual understanding."
"Or waste time on empty chatter."
"That's true too. Done," Misha demonstrated his strange contraption. "I think with this we'll rid you of the beacon."
"What's it for?" Alvar tensed.
"If we can't cut out the transmitter, we can deactivate it by frying it good," Misha said. After some manipulations on his compact computer, he showed a small and relatively detailed image of a round thing with several appendages. "This is the transmitter the Wraith implanted in your back. They placed it so you couldn't cut it out yourself."
Subspace transmitter of the Wraith.
"In that earlier image you showed, it looked bigger," Alvar noted. "More... fleshy."
"Yes, that's right," the guy cast a quick glance at the instrument panel. Worried someone might approach the ship and catch them off guard. "But this is its initial version. After implantation, it starts spreading throughout the body. I think that's in case the main part is removed or damaged. Then, most likely, the rest of the transmitter will transmit the subspace signal. It might not be as strong, but it won't throw them off the trail."
"The Wraith take everyone who helped me," Jensen said. "Stop for a night, a day, and they arrive."
"Always with the hive?" Misha asked, interested.
"Only a few times. Mostly Darts with troops. The hive arrives a few days later if I managed to hold out on the planet that long."
"And here you stayed long?"
"Not longer than on other planets. I heard there used to be monks from the Quindozium Brotherhood here. Rumors said they had some power."
"And you thought it could help you?"
"In my position, you use any opportunities."
"I agree," Misha nodded.
"So what with the transmitter? I get you want to zap it. Why?"
"Wraith technology is bionics, a mix of biological and mechanical components. Their devices have power sources like this," he pointed to his makeshift. "I think if we apply voltage to the tracker, we'll burn out the power source and make the transmitter useless."
"So it stops sending the signal?" Alvar perked up. What luck!
"In theory," Misha admitted.
"So you haven't done this in practice?" Jensen returned the knife to its initial state and sheathed it.
"You think I go to other planets every day, meddle in Wraith affairs, save Runners with subspace beacons in their backs, and perform surgery on them?" the new acquaintance smirked.
Sarcasm dripped from his words.
"I'd feel better if that were true," Jensen confessed. "I don't want to end up crippled."
"Risk is voluntary," Misha said. "Either this, or keep hoping for luck. So, what?"
"What do I need to do?"
"Turn your back, give me the knife, and... Pray to your gods, if your people have any."
Alvar preferred to silently bare his back.
***
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