Usually, crowds didn't bother Kaspar much. But only when the close proximity of a large number of people didn't make the air stale and navigating the corridors problematic.
Crowds didn't scare him on planets — he could easily spot a pickpocket or prevent a conflict with someone pushy.
Or he could simply step aside and take another path.
Inside a spaceship, it was very, very problematic to do that. But they had no other options.
He felt the deck vibrating under his feet. The people next to him, out of habit, grabbed the safety handholds almost without looking, continuing their movement through the compartments that had become cramped. Kaspar, though not particularly thrilled about it, also pressed himself against the bulkhead, clearing the central part of the corridor as much as possible for the people scurrying in both directions.
Judging by their dark brown uniforms, you could tell they were all part of the starship's crew. And that would be almost true.
From the perspective that on board a Nomad ship, even the youngest had to be useful. No matter how much they loved their children, close ones, and the elderly, when your life is spent in space, in an endless flight from one planet to another in search of resources and food, the issue of limited living space becomes... important.
To the point where, with heavy hearts, they had to leave people behind on planets. They had long stopped promising those left behind that they would come back for them when things got better. They stopped because things never got better.
Kaspar felt his heart tighten in his chest as a ten-year-old boy, puffing and straining, walked past him. A bag of food, weighing almost more than the kid himself, made him sway to the side. Yes, he could easily help, carry the provisions the boy had bought from the airlock to the hold, so the kid wouldn't have to kill himself.
But compassion was not part of his people's philosophy. Especially compassion that could only do harm.
Centuries in space taught a simple life philosophy: either you do your job, or you get left on a planet. And the latter, as everyone knows, is a direct path to becoming Wraith food.
It's a vicious circle that can't be broken just by snapping your fingers. If there is a way out, it lies only in the fact... that no one knows how to find it. And so the ship's captains continue to search for a way out among the stars.
Or rather, a way to prolong the agony.
No matter how disgusting it was to admit, this was exactly what Kaspar did when he descended onto planets — he acted in a way that would let his people, the crew of his ship, live a little longer.
And so that these youngsters, too small and therefore useful for the ship's needs simply because they took up less space, could keep being loaders, welders, mechanics. Even though they could have had a different future.
But the scout Kaspar Fry didn't know what that future could have been.
And no one knew.
Kaspar Fry, Nomad (Traveler).
When the flow of cargo subsided, he walked briskly through the corridors before reaching a heavy oval hatch. The airtight door gleamed in several spots where rust had been scraped off recently — another reminder that the fleet was not getting any younger.
He spun the wheel, having knocked first even though he knew it wasn't necessary. Boundaries had blurred long ago, but he, like many others, clung to the remnants of discipline. As if that could save them.
"It's unlocked!" the captain's familiar voice came from behind the door just as Fry was stepping over the coaming. "I thought you'd stay on the planet."
"What, send you the intel by carrier bird?" asked Kaspar, plopping down onto a small stool. Its legs were welded to the deck — as was always done on spaceships. In case the compartment depressurized (not the most unexpected scenario during the day, incidentally), it was better to have as few objects flying around the corridors as possible.
"I doubt they know how to make hyperjumps," the ship's commander said with a tight grin, bumping his fist against the offered one. "Glad you're still alive, Kaspar."
"Likewise, Asan," the scout replied in the same tone as his commander, glancing around quickly.
A tiny cabin with a single bed instead of a pair of bunks, a small table, a computer terminal, and a couple of welded-down chairs — that was all the living space a ship commander could count on. But these ten square meters belonged to him alone, not to half a dozen crew members.
A little bit of personal space in a private cabin — that was the only difference between the ship commander's quarters and a standard berthing compartment aboard his own starship.
"Any news?" Asan asked just as the starship gave a noticeable shudder. "Looks like the inertial dampeners are acting up again."
"At least we always know when we've left the atmosphere, right?" Fry said in the same tone as his commander. "There is news. And I won't say it's good, Asan."
"Were there ever days when we had good news?" the latter asked. After a moment's thought, Kaspar conceded the point and began his account.
Kaspar was ten years older than his commander, but that didn't stop them from speaking openly with each other. On many ships, commanders demanded their subordinates always add "Captain" before their name. Asan, however, made no such demands for himself.
Though he could have — after all, this starship was practically a relic of his family. Before being left on a planet, his father had commanded this tub. And before him, his father. And before that, his father. As far back as anyone had the patience to scroll through the ship's log, the men of Asan's family had commanded this vessel. Not that this was unusual in their fleet.
Even treating crew members like family wasn't unusual. Except perhaps regarding the boys and girls taken in exchange from other ships in the fleet. An old practice to prevent inbreeding. Although, as Asan sometimes grumbled, given centuries in space, it was unlikely anyone among them didn't share some degree of blood relation.
And that was also a problem.
One of many.
Blood was a big problem for their closed society. And for the commander of this ship, it was a very familiar problem.
"Bastards," Asan said after listening to the end. He shot up from the stool and began pacing the cabin. A couple of minutes later, he stopped at the open hatch, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at his scout. "Are you absolutely sure it's the Genii?"
Asan, Nomad.
"I spent weeks verifying that intel," Kaspar justified his account. "And you know —"
"You wouldn't bring me unverified information," Asan winced. "And that made my teeth ache."
"What's the problem?" Kaspar asked in surprise. "Matayas —"
"Grandfather Matayas has passed on to a better world," Asan said grimly. "Eight days ago. We buried him with full honors in a yellow dwarf a few light-years from here."
Funerals on ships happen often. But for the most part, they consist of packing the corpse into a bag and ejecting it into space. Keeping corpses on the ship is unpleasant for everyone — the cold storage has other uses.
Only the most worthy were buried by launching their bodies into stars. A small tribute to the person and the deeds they accomplished in life. Such a decision was always a trial, because the Nomads and their ships didn't approach stars very often, preferring not to test their shields and hulls that had long needed proper repairs.
Grandpa Matayas, as he was known aboard the ship, had been "grandfather" for as long as Kaspar could remember. A short, wiry old man whose wrinkled face always wore an approving smile. Whether he was fixing teeth or wielding a torch to seal another breach.
But while there were always enough mechanics on the ship, a dental technician was a very valuable specialist. Like many other representatives of rare professions, especially medical people.
"You always know where to find another good dentist," Fry said innocently.
"I know," Asan admitted reluctantly. "And until you told me about the Genii killing and pillaging on other planets, I had no desire whatsoever to go meet with Larrin."
"You still haven't made up?" Fry asked.
"Unlikely while I'm alive," the ship commander said darkly.
The subtext, which neither of them voiced aloud, was clear not only to the scout and his commander. And it wasn't about disagreements between Asan and Larrin, the commander of another ship that was often called the "flagship" among the Nomads.
There were disagreements between everyone — not just commanders of different starships. Even within a single crew. But for the most part, they weren't on a scale that would make one ship commander deliberately avoid another Nomad vessel.
Not unless there were twin blood brothers on those ships who had long since become strangers to each other. And the bond of blood had cooled so much that it could have been used to cool an overheating reactor.
"I'm sorry you'll have to meet with Nevik," Fry said. There was no chance that Larrin wouldn't bring her chief scientific officer to the rendezvous. And the negotiations would be marred by the twins once again moving from factual arguments to irrelevant insults.
"If the choice is between putting up with my flighty brother and informing the fleet that the Genii might wipe out our trading partners, then I'll find the strength to swallow my pride and do what's necessary for the survival of all Travelers," Asan assured him with a crooked grin. "After all, you can always stun him with the Frequency Gun."
The starship commander casually patted the holster strapped to his thigh, which held an energy pistol — a Frequency Gun.
"Frequency Gun."
Fry chuckled at the joke.
The "Frequency Gun" was a personal energy weapon that had come down to the current generation from other, more comfortable and less harsh times. Despite the fact that the Nomads could still produce Frequency Guns and ammunition for them, though not on a scale that would arm every crew member on every ship, every adult carried one.
Fry had seen their Frequency Guns on planets many times. As rare as they were compared to the firearms the Genii produced and sold while masquerading as completely different people, they were in the hands of hundreds of people who had nothing to do with the Nomads. Tracing the path of each such weapon from source to seller or owner was barely possible, although, as Kaspar knew, some scouts like him did exactly that.
The Nomad Fleet's Council of Captains didn't like that their personal weapons, whose manufacturing technology was a closely guarded secret, were falling into the hands of others. There weren't even enough Frequency Guns for their own people, and now this…
Nomads who owned such weapons didn't die on the surface often enough for their Frequency Guns to fall into the wrong hands. In the last five hundred years or so, it had happened at most a dozen times. And Fry had seen over a hundred of these weapons in just the last twenty years. And the samples clearly weren't repeated — each time it was a new "gun."
The Council of Captains was beside themselves with bile, trying to figure out who in the fleet was engaged in underground trade, but the culprit couldn't be found. However, Kaspar couldn't recall a single instance of scouts successfully finding the source of Nomad technology appearing among planetary inhabitants.
And it clearly wasn't because the Nomads were reluctant to give away valuable samples of weapons and technology. After all, it was profitable trade goods.
The real reason was that the Nomads themselves didn't have enough of the mechanisms and technologies that were going out. Whoever among the crews was doing this, when they were found, they would answer to everyone.
"Maybe we should set the power to the green indicator?" Kaspar asked innocently.
The Frequency Gun had three firing modes for its scarlet energy charges. The selector switch was on the barrel just before the cylinder, and above it were three colored indicators showing the weapon's settings: orange for stun, red for kill, and green for incineration.
The weapon, it was said, was based on the design of the Nomads' ancestors' favorite long-barreled revolvers. However, in space, having only six shots, even heavy ones, wasn't very practical. Some brilliant ancestor had found a way to combine the beloved design with acceptable technology.
Now, instead of a cylinder with heavy cartridges, the central drum held a capsule with a power cell. The cell had a limited amount of energy, but it could be removed for recharging or replacement. On the pistol's barrel were three small crystals, increasing in size from bottom to top — each responsible for the selected firing mode.
When set to stun, the Frequency Gun could knock a target unconscious with a single shot for several hours, making it much more powerful than the Wraith stunner.
Set to kill, the Frequency Gun could cause death to a human or Wraith with a single hit to vital body parts or organs.
And the last mode, the most draining on the energy cell — Incineration — was powerful enough to punch a quarter-meter hole in almost any solid material. But it should only be used in the most extreme cases — the Nomad ships didn't have much spare energy to recharge quickly depleted power cells. Economy was visible everywhere.
"I don't dislike him enough to have someone blow his head off," Asan shook his head. "Besides… you know. If Nevik and Larrin succeed in their project, it will benefit all of us. It would be foolish to kill such a clever bastard when he could give a home to several thousand of our people at once."
"If," Kaspar emphasized, "he can."
Some time ago, Larrin's ship had dropped out of hyperspace due to yet another breakdown. The crew faced a good tan while staying near a dwarf star… But as it turned out, things weren't as bad as they first seemed.
No, the hyperdrive had burned out, and Larrin had to use all her charm, blackmail, and feminine wiles to get spare parts. But that came later. Much later, after her people had discovered an Ancestors' ship drifting in an elliptical orbit.
A warship larger than several Nomad starships lined up in a row. Formidable and monumental on the outside, comfortable and beautiful in its own way on the inside, it had drifted for ten thousand years before being discovered.
And it had barely started to fall apart.
Aside from very serious hyperdrive malfunctions, the starship was practically intact. Nothing that wouldn't have reconciled the thousands of Nomads who could have found a home there.
Except for one thing.
They couldn't move it from its position except by towing it.
The starship's systems were in hibernation, and not even Asan's brother Nevik — considered one of, if not the smartest among the Nomads — could wake them.
All he had achieved in many months of work was getting one of the ship's reactors running at minimum power. According to the latest news, the life support system on the ancient battleship was also working. But so weakly that even ten people would be uncomfortable there. Let alone more.
But the entire Nomad fleet believed in Nevik's victory over the stubborn technology they barely understood. Because it was yet another way to prolong their people's agony.
A chance worth seizing.
"Oh, one more thing," Kaspar remembered. "Remember I told you about the Athosians?"
"The ones with the leader who's a nice lady with a nice ass?" Asan clarified.
"I can name five peoples that fit that description," Kaspar grinned. "But the one I'm talking about is called Teyla Emmagan."
Asan frowned.
"Is she the one they say can sense the approach of Wraiths?" he asked cautiously.
"She and a few others from her people," Fry confirmed the correctness of the guess.
"We buy something from them. Milk, goat meat, right?" considering the Nomads traded through their scouts with over three hundred small and large peoples, it was surprising Asan remembered what at all.
"Right. And recently they started trading tava beans," Fry said. "And a good dozen other crops they couldn't possibly have at this time of year."
"Tava…" Asan said slowly. "Well, I'll be damned — those are Genii beans!"
"Exactly."
"And the Genii go around punishing those who grow and sell their crops, don't they?" the commander clarified. "So Cowan's people will soon come for Emmagan and her tribe?"
"According to my intel, they've been trying to send their thug Koli to Athos for three days now," Fry said. "And before that, they spent two weeks trying to contact their lackeys on some other planet. I couldn't find out the name, or the reason it's so important. But the fact remains."
"I still don't quite get it. Why can't they contact the planets they need?"
"Because as soon as they establish a hyper-tunnel to the world they need, like Athos, when they go through the gates, they end up somewhere completely different from where they planned."
"How's that?" Asan asked in surprise. "Are the gates broken?"
"But the Athosians dial the Athos address without any problem, go through, and come back," Kaspar continued. "I talked to Teyla about it. She acted like there was nothing to discuss."
"Whatever protection they've come up with, we could use something like that," the captain's eyes lit up. "Imagine, we could protect our gates on the planet from Wraith invasion! We could establish a colony on the ground! Land the ships and get them properly repaired! Let the children breathe clean air, drink water from rivers instead of our own recycled fluids! Live without fear of attack!"
"That's exactly what I said to Teyla. Not directly, with hints," Kaspar explained. "And I've already relayed her answer to you."
"You think she's lying?"
"More than sure. Just as I'm sure the Athosians themselves could never have come up with something like that. Their metalworking isn't even as good as a dozen other races. Let alone organizing such protection. No, gate technology is so complex that even your brother couldn't figure it out. What chance do the Athosians have?"
Asan darkened.
"But the Wraith understand all of this perfectly," he said. "The millions of people they've collected with their 'Harvests' won't let me lie."
"But the Athosians would gut you with a bone needle for saying that," Fry assured him. "Working for, cooperating with, or worshipping the Wraith is worse than death for these gatherers. I'll admit that some part of their people could have done that. But not all. Especially since it doesn't match other intel."
"The increased harvest?"
"And not only that. I've been to several planets where they trade. They've started spending goods to find more profitable locations. They still travel in small groups. But they carry so much goods with them that even if each of them loaded three bags onto themselves, they couldn't carry it all."
"Warehouses?"
"They don't rent any. They sell or trade everything they have, then leave. And, weirdly enough, they've started quoting prices a bit lower than usual. And where the volume of produce depends on the number of workers and a not-so-mild climate, you don't haggle too much. And they've also got firearms. They carry them under their clothes, but if you look closely, you can see they're not Genii design. I haven't seen anything like that from anyone."
"Strange behavior, strange situation," Asan agreed. "Unexplained protection on the gates, crops they shouldn't have at this time of year, large volumes of food they can't carry themselves, weapons… They don't use wheelbarrows or carts either?"
"No. One of my agents once noted that they seem to pull their bags literally out of thin air."
"Was he drunk or chewing dream-weed?" the commander shook his head.
"He's not the biggest teetotaler, but he swears he was clean of the dream-weed then," Fry said. "So I thought… What if the Athosians have access to some technology we don't know about? Remember how Larrin once said that the Ancestors' warship has small ships on board. And Nevik claims they have something like a cloaking field."
"And Nevik also keeps quiet about having to open those ships with a cutting torch and crowbar," Asan winced. "I've known him my whole life. He's not a liar, but… No, do you seriously believe someone invented invisible ships?"
"We're talking about the Ancients," Kaspar reminded him. "The Ancestors flew around in city-ships, built gates across the entire galaxy. Who knows what else they can do?"
"Could," Asan corrected. "They died long ago at the hands of the Wraith."
"But what if they didn't?" Kaspar asked. "What if they survived?"
"I also believe in the greatness of the Ancestors, but live for ten thousand years?" the Nomad starship commander shook his head skeptically.
"Maybe their descendants returned? That the Ancestors' capital, Atlantis, was destroyed — we only know that from their stories. And the Wraith, you know yourself, aren't the most reliable source. We need to find out everything."
"So that's it," Asan narrowed his eyes. "That's why you came back to the ship. You want me to drop you off at Athos?"
"I wouldn't mind," Kaspar said. "I'll hang around there for a couple of days, maybe a week or two. If the Athosians have something, it's definitely there. Or was. And since you can't get to them through the gates…"
Asan thought for a couple of seconds.
"Alright," he declared. "We'll make a detour and drop you off on Athos. The Council will grumble, of course, but I'll think of something to tell them."
"How about the truth?"
"When we know it, that's when we'll tell them. I don't want our guesses and the strangeness of the Athosians' behavior to make the Council panic and pull Nevik away from his work on the Ancients' ship," Asan declared. "For now, he's the best thing our people have."
"Can't argue with that," Kaspar agreed, watching the commander inform the helmsman of the course change over the intercom.
A mission lay ahead, deep in the territory of a tribe of gatherers who had become too bold.
Bold… The Genii had also grown bolder lately. Was there a connection?
* * *