Rivon and I agree on a time (three days from now, which is both way sooner than I’m mentally prepared for, yet weirdly forever away), and he sends over an encrypted message that contains The Parallax’scoordinates, which will unscramble the morning we’re due to arrive. Vera (who has apparently claimed permanent possession of my handheld) passes the message to Jester and says, “Decrypt that, will you?”
Jester scans the link into his visor and assumes a look of deep concentration. After a minute, he shakes his head.This is… unusual.
“What’s wrong?”
The coordinates are not actually encrypted. They’ve just been converted into another language.
“And,” Vera asks without hope, “it’s a language you can translate?”
Jester makes a face.It’s not pulling up in my database.
“How is that possible?”
Either the language has been wiped from the records—only feasible for those with Level IV Legion security access—or it’s of Doc Min’s own invention.
Avi slips the handheld from Jester’s fingers and begins sounding out the words. “Borj at mal tepindee don lay—”
“Hang on,” Lament says, in the tone of someone who’s been surprised into speaking. “That’s Vinicchi.”
“What?” Vera frowns. “You mean, the language of Bast’s family? But how can that—?”
“The Vinicchis are Determinists.”
“Oh.” Vera looks a bit pale. “That’s right. I forgot.”
That explains the encryption.Jester runs a knuckle under his jaw.If Doc Min managed to recruit the Vinicchis into the Determinist movement, maybe he’s also commandeered their language.
“And,” the Youvu Hums say as they raise their brows, “used his Legion insurgents to wipe the language from the records so no outsiders can gain access.”
“I bet the Vinicchis are the ones who funded Doc Min’s encryption technology,” Vera says. “Among other things, surely. That family is loaded.” She looks at Lament. “Can you translate it?”
“Even if I could,” Lament says succinctly, “I wouldn’t.”
Avi makes a show of rolling her eyes. “We know you’re not on board with Operation Infiltration, but that’s no excuse to be such a sour lemon.”
He shoots Avi a look. “Sour lemon?”
“You know.” Avi makes a face like she’s bitten into one of Jester’s gummies.
Lament glowers. “I do not look like that.”
“He’s right.” Toph nudges Avi’s arm. “It’s more like—” He hunches his back and curls his hands into claws.
“Ooo.” Avi claps appreciatively. “I like what you did there.”
We don’t need a translator, Jester interrupts.Now that I know the language is Vinicchi, I can do a reverse electromagnetic spectrum search. It’s like a regular search, he explains at our blank looks,except I’m pulling data from historical radio frequencies imprinted onto space-time and piecing them together to reverse engineer the language.
“Do not,” Vera says gravely, “ever switch to Doc Min’s side. We’d have no hope.”
Luckily tomorrow’s our day off, because it takes Jester the better part of the evening to pull historical radio imprints off space-time (whatever that means) and unscramble the language. To be supportive, the Sixers hang around, offering suggestions which range from mildly amusing (“Have you tried spelling the coordinates backward?”) to downright deranged (“What if you replace every semicolon with the wordmurder?”). Vera trots off to find us some midnight snacks, Avi draws pictures of angry-looking hamsters on her whiteboard (“They’re for morale!”), and the others lounge on the floor or Lament’s couch, yawning, chatting, generally talking strategy.
I keep trying to catch Lament’s eye. He keeps avoiding me.
It’s nearly one in the morning when Jester finally lifts his head.I’ve got it.He switches the view of his visor to project a 3D hologram of Doc Min’s spacecraft into the air. And it’s…
It’s really, very much not good.
Here’s the thing. I’m no spacecraft expert, but even I can recognize a BlackWing when I see one.Thatis the craft designed by the (in)famous Martin Grimm, who was part scientist, part madman, best known for his splicing experiments on extinct land reptiles. Basically, the guy wanted to resurrect deadly dinosaur hybrids, and he needed a place to work where (a) the hybrids couldn’t escape, and (b) no one would figure out what he was up to. The BlackWing is, to put it shortly, a fortress. Grimm was eventually arrested, and his experiments were put to an end, but the galaxy saw the potential in his ship and began reproducing the model for maximum security prisons. There aren’t many BlackWings in circulation anymore—it’s all from an era past—but they’re wildly valuable. And somehow, Doc Min has managed to turn one of them into his headquarters.
