Pamela F. Service - Under Alien Stars.pdf - Pamela F. Service - widez2

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Pamela F. Service

Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of

Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of

Canada Limited, Toronto.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any

information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from

the Publisher.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-28025 ISBN 0-449-70404-1

This edition published by arrangement with Atheneum, an Imprint of Macmillan

Publishing Company

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: December 1991

Some of this is for Karen, and some for Gayle

prologue

A THRILL OF FEAR AND EXCITEMENT TINGLED THROUGH THE

boy as he took up his station on the high redwood deck. Dutifully he surveyed

the houses and lawns below as evening settled over the comfortable suburban

neighborhood. Mothers had already called the younger children in, but several

older ones still scrambled after a soccer ball in the deepening twilight.

The boy watched them, feeling deliciously superior. Those kids were playing

games, but he was carrying out an important mission. He was standing watch,

being sentinel for the secret meeting.

This was the first Resisters meeting he'd been taken to, and he was proud that

his parents trusted him so much. Of course, the other adults hadn't wanted him

in on the actual meeting where they planned things—the strikes, the attacks,

the clandestine radio broadcasts, the pamphlet writing, and the rest. But it

was important for someone to keep guard as well. Strangers might approach the

house or start watching it, or a Tsorian ground car might cruise by. And of

course, it was important that he watch the sky.

Nervously he looked up. The pale evening blue was darkening, and a few stars

were beginning to appear—like

newly awakened eyes. He shuddered. Somehow when the stars were out, it did

feel as if they were watching. After all, that was where they came from. The

Tsorians, the conquerors of Earth. The enemy. Daringly he whispered the word

aloud and felt a new thrill of defiance.

The enemy, yes, but they wouldn't win, they wouldn't be here long. Even after

nine years, resistance hadn't crumbled. All over the planet there were

Resister groups like this one. And someday their disruption, their sabotage,

and their full-scale rebellion would work. The Tsorians would give up. They'd

leave and let humans run their own world.

Again he scanned the neighborhood. The soccer game had dwindled down to two

persistent players and one yappy dog. In the house opposite, a bedroom was lit

up, and he could see a kid sprawled on the floor assembling a model. In

another house, the fish-tank glow in the front room silhouetted a family

watching TV.

Otherwise, though, there weren't many lights. The subdivision didn't even have

streetlights. Good thing too, he thought, since it would probably foul up his

night vision.

Again he scanned the sky. More stars now. He wondered how the old Greeks had

come up with those crazy ideas for constellations. What patterns he did see

didn't look anything like theirs. But then, they had probably spent a lot of

time looking at the stars. They weren't afraid of them the way people were

now.

A pity really, because those stars were rather pretty when you had to spend

tune looking at them like this. Some were set together like jewels, and some

were big and on their own. They were different colors too. That one was almost

red, and some of the others were sort of gold. And there was a blue one.

Several, Blue. No!

He jumped from his chair in panic, staring at the growing blue lights. Then he

jammed a hand down on the intercom. "Tsorians!" he yelled. "Blue ships!

They're coming this way!"

The tinny voice on the other end was his father's. "Got you, Ricky. We're

ditching. Get away from this house-fast!"

One more glance at the three blue lights, clearly closer now, and he dove

through the door. As he pelted down the stairs, he heard slamming doors and

yelling voices from the basement.

In moments he was outside. Like panicky bugs, Resis-ters were racing for their

cars. The soccer players stopped their game and looked upward. Then, yelling,

they began running for their homes. The squealing thrum of the ships already

tainted the air.

He heard his parents calling him and began racing for their car. On both sides

of the street doors opened and people stumbled out, looking up. Three glowing

blue triangles were hovering above them. Screaming, people grabbed up little

children and began running down the street, barely dodging the first fleeing

cars.

He redoubled his speed, wishing his own car weren't so far down the street.

Overhead, one of the triangles veered away, dropped, and flew low over the

street. Blue energy shot from it. In an instant, the house they'd just left

was engulfed in flame.

The air throbbed with it. Everywhere on streets and lawns, people, dogs, and

cars fled in panic. Mouths were open, yet he could hear nothing but the ships

and the flames.

His parents ahead of him. The car door open. Twisting, he looked back. The

ship had turned and was making

another run. Pulses of energy swept down the street, engulfing house after

house.

The last thought Ricky Jensen had before the blue heat reached him was, "It

isn't fair! The enemy shouldn't win."

one

THE PLANET HAD CIRCLED ITS SUN ONCE SINCE THE BOY'S

death, but Aryl had been on this world's surface less than half of that time

and knew nothing about it. Already she considered her stay far too long.

Standing now at the balustrade of the Headquarters plaza, she gazed out over

the ocean. She frowned. It was wrong. The colors were wrong, the smell was

wrong. Everything was wrong.

An ocean should be green, and so should the sky. And behind that sky, stars

should stretch in a glittering curtain, close-packed and bright in their

friendly familiar patterns. When this world turned from its sun, the sky was

cold and dark with great stretches of emptiness between its stars. And those

stars were ah1 in the wrong patterns.

An orange disk sailed into her sight before curving back toward eager,

outstretched hands. Turning, she stared at the native children laughing and

playing at one side of the plaza. Suddenly her homesickness doubled. She was

about the same chronological age as those children. Yet she was Tsorian. Last

year she had gone through First Passage. The end of childhood. The end of

playing and schooling and irresponsibility. She was bonded.

Sighing, she turned back to the alien sea. The sharp breeze battered her with

its odd tangy smell and billowed the hair around her dark face into a pale

gray cloud. Not that she could regret this change. It was the pattern of life.

And her bonding was not an average one, because her parent was not an average

Tsorian adult. She felt a comforting surge of pride. He was Rogav Jy,

Commander of the Ninth Fleet of the Tsorian Empire. He was her father.

Below, the waves boomed and foamed over dark, green-splotched rocks. Their

sound dulled the discordant strains of the wailing alien music. But at last

Aryl turned from them and scanned the large mixed crowd, presumably enjoying

the annual party that the Tsorian Occupation Headquarters threw for the native

staff and their families. She picked out her father immediately. It wasn't

difficult; his black body-suit and deep maroon complexion were the same as the

other Tsorians', but his black cape was the only one showing a green lining,

the color of command rank. The only one besides her own, of course, since as

his bond-child she automatically shared his rank.

He was talking now with a native female, one with outrageous red-brown hair.

Aryl tensed. Her bonding with her father was very close. She loved and

respected him, and now bonded to him, she would complete her preparation for

adulthood, for rank and career, under his training. She'd share all his

activities and learn all that he assigned her to learn. But one thing that he

expected her to learn still seemed highly distasteful—this mingling with

natives and learning their ways.

Rogav Jy had an Empire-wide reputation for that sort of thing. They said it

was something that helped make him a great commander, being able to understand

aliens— friends, foes, or neutrals. But Aryl was only one year away

from her sheltered nursery world. Aliens made her very uncomfortable, this

batch particularly.

Just look at that female, she thought. Proper hair isn't red. It's black or

white or a shade of grey; possibly ash gray like her own or a dark steel gray

like her father's. But these people had an undisciplined riot of shades for

hair, and for skin as well. Some were brown, some pink, some tan. Tsorians

were orderly, uniform. From world to world, age to age, their skin was a calm,

sensible maroon.

Aryl shook her head and looked away. The alien scenery was unsettling enough,

but not as bad as the natives. Yet it seemed she couldn't avoid them. A young

native male, with pale skin and hair a dusty yellow, now leaned against the

railing not far from her. His attention was fixed where AryFs had been a few

seconds earlier, on the Tsorian commander talking with the native female. Aryl

wasn't practiced in interpreting native expressions, but it did seem that this

boy was scowling. She knew she'd have to force herself to talk with some

native today, yet this one hardly looked like a promising target.

The boy abruptly turned his attention to the plate of food he was holding. He

took a few jabs at something on it, then suddenly flung the whole thing, plate

and all, over the railing. The brittle native crockery shattered, splattering

food all over the rocks.

With raucous cries, a white, winged animal swooped from the sky and began

gobbling the discarded morsels. Aryl shuddered, but the expression on the

boy's face lightened. He reached into a pocket and brought out a chunk of some

native food that he tore into bits and began flinging to the greedy animal.

Within moments, two more creatures circled down from above and started

squawking harshly and jostling the first.

Primitive and barbaric. Again Aryl shuddered and turned away. This whole world

seemed so crude and uncivilized. How could these natives stand to interact so

closely with animals, with grossly lower orders? She sighed resignedly. Well,

if she was going to force herself to follow her father's example, she could

probably find no greater challenge than talking to this surly, barbaric alien.

Jason glowered across the milling, jabbering crowd to where his mother stood

talking with that alien. He was the one she'd mentioned, he supposed, the one

with the green cape lining. Then, he recalled, had come another of her

lectures, this one about how he should learn the Tsorian color ranking so he

could tell one from another. But he didn't want to. He didn't care who was

who. They were all nasty, murdering invaders as far as he was concerned.

And he certainly didn't want to be standing here watching his own mother talk

with their chiefl Angrily he turned back to watch the gulls gobble the food

he'd flung to them. They were greedy and they were quarrelsome, but at least

they were from Earth.

It was bad enough, Jason mused, having his mother be a known collaborator.

What would the kids at school say if they knew he'd gone to this Tsorian

garden party and munched their dainty hors d'oeuvres? Well, he admitted,

probably most wouldn't care a lot. They thought more about the fortunes of

their school teams than about their planet having been gobbled up by an alien

empire. But the kids he cared about, the ones he wanted to get in with, they'd

think coming here was next to treason. Some of them, alter all, had actually

been friends of Ricky Jensen's.

Jason had known him too, but not well. Ricky had hung around with those other

kids, the ones who furtively called

themselves Resisters. And none of them would have anything to do with

Jason—not with the son of a collaborator.

Later, of course, they'd all learned that Ricky's parents had actually been

Resisters, real ones, and they'd belonged to a secret group. But it hadn't

been quite secret enough. Last year the Tsorians had wiped it out, along with

Ricky and half a neighborhood. It wasn't far from home, just over the hills,

and Jason's mother had taken him there once to see the devastation. The

Tsorians didn't let such spots be built on again. They wanted them to remain

as stark reminders of the consequences of defying the Tsorian occupation. But

to Jason it had seemed more a reminder of why that occupation needed defying.

The food splattered over the rocks finally ran out, and the seabirds flapped

heavily off in search of other pickings. Reluctantly Jason turned back to the

party.

To his surprise, a Tsorian was standing nearby, a young female looking right

at him. At least he thought she was young, though her hair was almost white.

Stupid to have drab hair colors that didn't even give a clue to a person's

age.

Jason was turning back toward the ocean when the girl took a step closer and

spoke in dry, harshly accented English.

"I see you have provided your own entertainment, feeding those . . . animals.

Amusing, but don't you want to throw disks with the others?"

"I don't feel like playing."

"Oh. Do you come here to the Headquarters often?"

"No, not if I can help it."

She was silent a moment, then said, "It is beautiful here."

"It was," he began, then continued boldly, "before you

Tsorians came. My father used to tell me there was a park here by the water.

With the redwoods and Mount Tamal-pais beyond, it probably was beautiful."

The Tsorian frowned. "Come now, this planet has more than enough wilderness.

It's almost unkempt. Our Headquarters doesn't intrude on you."

"Intrude? I suppose wiping out armies and rebellions and innocent civilians

isn't intruding?"

"We can't let you natives disrupt our holdings here. This is a strategic

planet. The needs of the Empire must come before those of a few natives."

Quivering with anger, Jason looked straight into her pupil-less eyes. Eyes

like black marbles, he thought, like hamsters' eyes. "Have you any idea how

arrogant you sound, calling us 'natives' as if we were a pack of primitive

Indians?"

The other breathed in sharply and flexed her claws a moment as if

contemplating some violent response. Then she shifted her gaze beyond him,

across the Golden Gate Bridge to where the city of San Francisco gleamed in

the afternoon sun.

"Indeed," she said simply. "And who are these 'Indians'?"

"The people who lived here before the Europeans came and took over."

"And these 'Europeans' had a superior technology?"

"Of course."

She smiled tautly. "So there it is, the natural order of things. You see, it

really is just the same."

Jason grabbed the railing to keep himself from sending a fist through that

sneering alien face. "It's not the same at all! The Indians and Europeans were

one species. Sure, they squabbled about land, but you Tsorians came and

took everything from us, from all of us, Indians, Europeans, everybody. You

took our independence, our future!"

"Ridiculous! We've given you a better future."

"Oh, really? The only marvelous technology you've shared with us is the

business end of your weapons!"

Jason turned and snatched a plate from the automatic serving tray that was

gliding by them. One by one he picked the glistening curls of meat off the

plate and tossed them onto the rocks. Cheering raucously, two sea gulls

swooped from the sky and began fighting and gobbling. The Tsorian glared at

him a moment, then abruptly turned and stalked away.

Jason smiled grimly and continued to watch the gulls. At last he'd said what

he'd wanted to say. And he'd said it to one of them,

Slowly his elation faded. Big courageous act. Gripping the plate, he launched

it like a Frisbee onto the rocks, scattering the startled birds. Someday he'd

do something, something besides talk. Something that made a difference. Ricky

Jensen had tried, hadn't he? Well, someday he, Jason Sikes, would try too.

Only he'd succeed!

two

ARYL STOMPED AWAY. WERE ALL NATIVES THAT RUDE AND obnoxious? Probably not or

they wouldn't be working here in Occupation Administration. And besides, these

aliens did things oddly. Young people didn't bond with a parent, didn't work

with them in their careers. That boy's parent probably wasn't anything like

him. Still, it was hard to imagine such incredible disharmony between parent

and child, alien or not.

Well, she wouldn't try. This compulsory event was unpleasant enough without

dwelling on one misfit native. She looked around, then joined a group of young

Tsorians. They saluted the command green of her cape and began speaking with

guarded respect. Bonded to parents in Fleet or Occupation forces, they too

were bound by protocols of rank. As long as their capes all bore the same

rank-color, they could talk and joke freely among themselves, but with her

they had to be respectful.

Aryl left them as soon as politeness allowed. Not a whole lot more pleasant

than her last encounter, she had to admit. She could almost see why her father

mingled with natives, sympathetic ones at least. Relations with them were

outside restrictions of protocol, while every

Tsorian here, besides herself, was below his rank and strictly not to be

fraternized with, outside of duty.

She looked about for him now. He was no longer with that native woman but was

standing near the exit. Good. Maybe they would soon be going. Aryl made her

way through the crowd, then slowed as she saw that her father was talking with

Oimog Vak, Governor of the Occupation.

Governor Oimog's hair was a lighter gray than the Commander's and she was

nearly as tall, but under her standard tight black uniform, her body was going

to fat. Rogav's was solid and muscular, and at the moment, Aryl noticed, it

was tense with anger.

Aryl moved within hearing. Whatever was her father's business was hers as

well.

"Commander Rogav," the Governor said in an oily, unpleasant tone, "I won't be

put off any longer. I need those ships."

"You wouldn't need them, Governor, were this occupation being properly run."

"It is being properly run, Commander! Precisely by the regulations. This is no

Colony, let me point out, nor even a Ward World. It is an Occupied Strategic

Planet. Occupied for the sole purpose of providing the Empire with a foothold

in an endangered region."

The Fleet Commander showed his pointed teeth in a calm, humorless smile. "I do

not dispute that, Governor, nor do I doubt that you are running things

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