The device resembling a compact computer in Misha's hands beeped briefly. Alfhar, pulling down his T-shirt to cover his exposed back, turned halfway. His inexperienced assistant was peering at the device screen, biting his lower lip.
"All 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 look yourself," Misha turned the handheld toward him. The former soldier looked at the white diagram of structures resembling a human skeleton. And at the reddish substance that had spread like shrub roots, wrapping around some bone parts.
"I'm no medic either," the Runner admitted. "I understand the beacon somehow attached to my body. The doctors I met said it was impossible to remove without killing me or making me a cripple."
"Probably that's the case," the guy agreed. "At least under our conditions."
"Then 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 spontaneous friend," Misha asked. "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 is not how I planned to complete this mission," Misha admitted. He cast a quick glance at the virtual screen. Making sure 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 quite 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 about the same—he knew how to use it, but did so somewhat uncertainly. As if he lacked practice. Or, worse, he had never piloted such a craft before.
In other circumstances, Jensen would never trust 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. But not in the "pilot," but in the Runner's own mind.
"What about going all out?" Jensen asked. "We'll get to the Ancestors' Ring, dial the address of your world, 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 toward 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."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I know a group of people who will 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," categorical notes traced in the new acquaintance's voice. "I need to get off this planet no less than you. And believe me, the reasons are very serious. But we're stuck until we solve the issue with your transmitter. We can only leave here together. If you're in a hurry, I'll drop you on the first planet we come across—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 was unwilling to take risks. Everyone has their reasons. Apparently, Misha didn't intend to leave him to the Wraith's mercy. Probably, he thought that when the Runner was caught (and sooner or later it would happen), he would tell about him, his weapons and ship. Technologies of this level were not just a threat to the Wraith—a direct call to exterminate the race that built them.
On Alvar's planet, people learned to split the atom, built weapons factories, manufactured space fighters to counter the Wraith during the next culling. But they could oppose nothing to even one hive ship when it began bombarding them from orbit.
Let them fight desperately, to the last drop of blood, to the last pilot, gunner, fighter—the Wraith weren't stopped. If they had more time, perhaps there would be more fighters and the enemy's "Darts" wouldn't crash down on them like fire from the heavens.
"I won't argue about planet names," Misha waved his hand, unwinding some wire and trying to cut it with the blade. Quite logically, he didn't succeed. The metal class 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 this way from the beginning, but hoped the device hadn't spread that much yet," the new acquaintance explained. "Need two pieces of wire about this length."
He spread his palms about twenty-twenty-five centimeters apart.
"Easy," Alvar agreed. "Give me the knife."
Grabbing the weapon by the blade, Misha returned what was required. Jensen, turning the lower part of the handle, slightly lifted the cover, then threaded the wire through the opening. Turning the end part 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 faced forward, the Runner shared the blade
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching as Misha, flipping his compact computer, pried the back cover with the blade and broke it off. Exactly broke it off, not pried or opened.
It seemed he understood little about 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 parts from inside the handheld 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 with a second device. "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 next to one of the parts of the other handheld.
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 having oppositely charged poles, Misha was now screwing the free ends of the wires.
"We achieved quite a few scientific discoveries since the last culling," Jensen admitted. "They considered us a big threat."
"Did they take your kin?"
"First they destroyed everything on my planet. Collected 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 humans."
"And it's also dangerous to leave anyone alive. After all, a civilization can restore its potential and become more dangerous after they return from hibernation. However, their hibernation didn't protect us. Although the chronicles claimed the Wraith don't come to our planet during their hibernation, they came."
"The hive that was hunting you?"
"Apparently, yes."
"Was there only one hive?" genuine interest sounded in the guy's voice.
"They had many "Darts."
"I get that. But you see, every 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 his words. "Your words about queens match our chronicles. However, I didn't see a queen on board. The commander spoke on her behalf, and he commanded everything there."
"I'm just keeping the conversation going," the interlocutor spread his hands. "You know, we're about to do not the simplest manipulation here. I'd like us to trust each other at least a little. And communication 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 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 demonstrated a small and relatively detailed picture of a round thing with several protrusions. "This is the transmitter the Wraith implanted in your back. They placed it so you couldn't cut it out yourself."
Wraith subspace transmitter.
"On that picture you showed earlier, it looked bigger," Alvar noted. "More... meaty."
"Yes, that's right," the guy cast a quick glance toward 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. "Worth stopping even for a night, a day, and they arrive."
"Always on a hive?" Misha became interested.
"Only a few times. Mostly "Darts" with assault teams. The hive arrives a few days later if I managed to hold out on the planet that long."
"And how long have you been here?"
"Not longer than on other planets. I heard that monks from the Quindozium Brotherhood once existed here. By rumors, they had some power."
"And you assumed it could help you?"
"In my position, you need to use any opportunities."
"I agree," Misha nodded.
"So what about the transmitter? I already get you want to shock it. Why?"
"Wraith technologies are bionics, a mix of biological and mechanical components. Their devices have batteries 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 will stop transmitting the signal?" Alfhar became interested. What luck!
"In theory," Misha admitted.
"So in practice you haven't done this?" Jensen returned the knife to its original state and put it away.
"You think I go to other planets every day, interfere in Wraith affairs, save Runners with subspace beacons in their backs, and perform surgery on them?" the new acquaintance smirked.
Sarcasm oozed from his words.
"I'd feel calmer if that were the case," Jensen admitted. "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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