"Materiel doesn't define Mankind, but it serves as an aide-memoire to some of the most astounding moments in our history, as well as some of the most catastrophic. Decisions based upon perceived technological advantage often overlook the psychological implications of the action."
(from Deconstructing Homo sapiens) Simon Villiers
I'm not a soldier; neither am I scared of guns. I know which end is dangerous and I can handle a pistol without being a hazard to either myself or my companions. But I've never been the main target in a firefight, so you'll forgive me if I'm abrupt or my language gets colourful. The wall against my back keeps shuddering as the bullets strike and I don't think it'll last much longer. My pistol is empty, my earpiece just gives back static. I think I might be in trouble.
I'm not a soldier; I rarely carry any kind of firearm. But the Revered Mother thought it practical that all members of her crew – males, maidens and token humans - were familiar with the handheld weaponry Knife carried. I don't feel privileged; Hhane, one of the more considerate males, has made it clear I'm really not worthy of the honour, berates my human-designed handgun. Matriarch have a five-digit hand - the two outer digits are thumb-like and don't possess the retractable claw of the middle finger. Yes, my pistol looks inferior, much the way I feel most of the time, but the Revered Mother has given S'tur, the senior Maiden, the task of educating me and keeping me safe. And, by several light-seconds, I'm the best pilot on the ship.
The Circle of Mothers, the Haeme, decreed that I, a human, would be Knife's First Pilot. I've assumed it was because I brought the damn thing back, but S'tur has hinted at a deeper reason. They'll tell me one day; matriarchy like to explain their decisions, but I could be old and grey before they do. If I live that long. Which is looking less likely. Angelina Bofors – they all call her Angel – is the only other human aboard. She's closeted with Revered Mother most of the time. I'm still not sure what function she serves on the crew. Maybe their training her to be the first human Maiden.
There's a lull in the firefight and I risk a look toward the derelict building S'tur, Dhun and Hhane were using for cover. They're lucky, whoever we're facing are only using small calibre weaponry; the ornately-carved stonework is pockmarked and cracked, but it's holding firm. By contrast, I'm out in the open, laying almost horizontal behind the low surround of a raised flower bed. Between me and the others are a dozen wide, white steps that lead down from the buildings' piazza, to the dry, sunken fountain and riotously-overgrown flowerbeds I was admiring. Apart from my stay on Home, this is the first alien world I've had chance to explore, its baroque architecture more interesting than the matriarchy's primarily functional approach to their built environment. I was just contemplating the similarity between one of the plants cultivated in the raised stone bed and horsehair ferns back on Earth, when the first shot sounded. I still don't know who fired and at who they were aiming; I lose interest in trivialities when sudden death clears its throat.
Shouting. I can hear matriarchy voices, though the content isn't understandable – I'm still learning the spoken language and have no hope ever deciphering all the other visual and chemical cues they employ – ear-flicks, eye movement, the background pallet of pheromones I don't possess (but am still occasionally affected by). It all means that, in tense or fast-evolving situations, the aliens around me stop communicating clearly. S'tur's the most engaging of all the matriarchy on the ship; she takes the time to explain concepts and pass on the common names they apply to everyday objects in HunAckt, the matriarchy language: chair is vjsot, my pilot's Chair is dlu vsjot – sky chair. Their handguns are jszzrt, hand-spitter; mine is Scobie's ypu – Scobie's 'toy'.
I'm sure half the words they've taught me are little jokes specifically at my expense. I'll take all of their veiled insults, all the 'accidents', everything. Willingly. None of it matters when I'm in the Chair. So, no, I'm not dying on the second alien planet I've scuffed boots on! Sod them all! I'm getting my arse back to the ship. I'm surviving this even if I have to kill everything with my bare hands!
