I suspected this was not just an Eerie Coincidence.

The person in gray made rustling noises: I could not see what this person was doing, but it sounded as if he or she was rooting inside a jacket pocket. Then a man’s voice said in conversational tones, "It’s Oar. We’ve got her."

No doubt he was speaking to someone else via a communication device. This in itself was enough to give me chills — confirmation that these people were looking for me in particular. But even more terrifying was how he spoke: not in English, but in my own language. The tongue I had learned from infancy, the language of my mother and my sister and all the teaching machines on Melaquin.

Suddenly, I had a terrible thought. Those teaching machines had been built by the Shaddill… and I knew our current language was not what my ancestors spoke when they first arrived from Earth.

What if all this time — from my very birth and from the births of untold generations of my glass predecessors — we had been speaking the Shaddill’s own tongue? What if they had created the teaching machines to make us over in their own image? Our flesh-and-blood ancestors could not have prevented it; they were mortals who died in their natural time, and after that, our only instructors were the machines. Perhaps somewhere on Melaquin, in some well-lit Ancestral Tower, members of the first glass generation still remembered words from ancient human tongues… but those ancestors had not made sufficient effort to pass on the words to subsequent generations, and now we were thoroughly immersed in the language of our enemy.

In a horrid way, I was a Shaddill.

I hoped that beneath the gray pants, the man in front of me did not have glass legs.

I Make First Contact With The Shaddill

The man stepped closer. Indeed, he came near enough to nudge me with his foot. I let him do so; he gave a satisfied grunt, then turned away. That was the moment I swept my right leg in front of his ankles, while kicking at the back of his knees with my other foot. His knees buckled most satisfactorily — he fell backward on top of me, his head striking my stomach with a satisfying thump.

It was an Earthling head with genuine hair. Not my lovely glass species at all.

My right arm was still entirely numb. However, I threw my left around the man’s throat in an arm-bar and squeezed tight. He tried to yell, but could draw no air. Desperately, he grabbed my arm with both hands and tried to pull it away. If I had possessed a functional right hand to reinforce the armbar, he never would have pried me loose. As it was, he still had to work hard for it — after five seconds, he was just able to inhale, readying himself for a shout, when a large orange hand clamped down hard on his mouth.

Lajoolie. I had not heard the tiniest whisper of her approach.

She was not quite so silent in finishing the man off — one cannot throw eight successive palm-heels into a man’s solar plexus without making noticeable thumps, not to mention the "Whuf!" sounds that emerge from a man’s mouth no matter how thoroughly you have him muffled — but the noises were scuffly and vague, rather than clear-cut evidence of a fight. If other persons were listening, I hoped they would think the man was merely struggling to drag my unconscious body out into the open… and indeed, a moment later, a woman’s voice called, "Do you need a hand with her?"

Lajoolie looked at me helplessly. The words had been spoken in my own language; Lajoolie did not know what had been said, and no doubt feared it was something like, "I know you have pummeled my partner, and now I will shoot you like dogs."

I gave Lajoolie a reassuring smile and called back in a throaty whisper, "Yes, come help." One would never pretend it sounded exactly like the man, but my performance was good enough to fool the unseen woman — her footsteps came slowly out of the airlock, moving in our direction.

As she approached, there was time to inspect the man Lajoolie and I had just bludgeoned. His hair was jet black, cut close to the skull, and he sported a fussily trimmed goatee; his skin was golden, about halfway between Aarhus’s light pinkness and Festina’s deep tan. As for his clothes, they were indeed a Technocracy admiral’s uniform — something that raised important questions, but I had no time to ponder such issues. The man’s female colleague would soon be upon us and…

And…

The man was not breathing. In fact, he had gone quite limp; I could not remember him moving so much as an eyelid since Lajoolie finished hitting him.

Oh dear, I thought, the League of Peoples is not going to like this.

I Make Second Contact With The Shaddill

The man’s female partner was almost upon us. Silently, Lajoolie slipped out of sight behind the crate of platinum. As for me, I was left as I had been while trying to choke the foe: lying on my back with the man slumped on top of me.

Knowing that any second, the Shaddill woman would come around the corner and see what had happened, I used my good hand to snatch up the ingot I had dropped earlier. When the woman appeared — a beefy red-faced human with hair of stringy white, her body clad in admiral’s gray — I hurled the chunk of metal with all my strength straight into her stomach.

The impact made a satisfying thump. Her shoulders jerked in a sharp spasm, but she did not buckle over. Instead, she reached toward her belt where a pistol hung in a holster; I recognized the gun as a hypersonic stunner, the type carried by human Explorers. Such a weapon had murdered my sister and nearly killed me as well. Therefore, I was desperately trying to roll away from the line of fire, when a slim brown hand slammed the pistol out of the woman’s fingers.

The slim brown hand was attached to Festina’s arm.

A moment later, a slim brown fist attached to Festina’s other arm caught the woman with a cracking blow to the jaw. The woman’s head snapped sideways, but she showed no sign of being hurt. In fact, it was Festina who yelled, "Fuck!" and jerked her fist away as if in great pain. Even so, my Faithful Sidekick went back on the offensive within a split-second: she slammed her forearm across the woman’s chest while simultaneously sweeping a leg behind the woman’s knees. The alien admiral woman toppled backward, striking the floor with a bang. Then Aarhus and Uclod were there, pounding and stomping and generally committing mayhem until the woman lay still.

"Damn!" Uclod panted. "That was one tough honey."

"Her partner was not tough at all," I said. "He is no longer breathing."

"Christ!" Festina cried. She raced toward me and dropped to her knees, touching her fingers to the fallen man’s throat. Her face turned even more anxious; after probing the man’s neck at several points, she said, "I can’t find a pulse. Shit!"

With desperate urgency, she dragged the man off me, flat onto the floor. Kneeling beside him, she tipped back his head, blew two breaths into his mouth, then began pushing down on his chest. Under her breath she whispered, "One and two and three and four and five and…"

"Oh, missy," Uclod said, hovering behind Festina’s shoulder, "this is not good. They only had zappers and stun-grenades. We had no justification for using deadly force…"

Lajoolie, still crouching beside the crate of platinum, let forth an anguished sob. "I just…" She buried her face in her hands.

Uclod rushed to her side, calling out to the whole room, "It’s not her fault. She didn’t know her own strength."

"I do," she moaned, "I do know my own strength. Over and over again, they told me never to hit people or else… or else my brother…" She sobbed and crumpled.

"I’ve got bad news," Sergeant Aarhus called from a few paces away. "This woman isn’t breathing either."