'Pan back to planetary view and overlay projected trajectory of the Firebase fragments.'

  'It wouldn't hurt you to say please occasionally,’ scolded a female voice.

  The pilot groaned. Did the computer programmers back at the shipyards absolutely have to give his vessel's Voice Activated Intelligence a womanly persona? ‘Just do it, Vai,’ he tersely ordered.

  'As my master commands,’ she coldly replied.

  The pictured continent was relegated to a fraction of its earlier size when the hologram flickered onto an atlas-like globe representing Earth. A swarm of red triangles materialised against the sterile gray of the starsphere's dull metallic décor and flowed steadily towards the planet.

  'Vai, calculate probable impact points, if you will.'

  'There are fourteen major targets. Shall I compute grounding points for all?'

  'Focus on the largest one. Don't forget to compensate for atmospheric distortion. Entries tend to go haywire when an object that size punches through a turbulent atmosphere.'

  'Do not tell me how to function, darling'

  He sighed and muttered an oath. ‘I swear I'll remove your damn emotion chip one of these days.'

  'You would miss my scintillating company too much.'

  His computer was right. Artificial intelligence units were an integral part of long distance space flight. Aside from being indispensable in the daily running of a starship, each cybernate personality provided its lone commander with an appreciated measure of company. Every pilot was partnered to a VAI programmed in the speech and mannerisms of the opposite sex in the hope that such interaction would lessen, even enliven, the solitude. Whoever automated this VAI sure had a perverse sense of humour.

  The display zeroed in on the assigned triangle and likely trajectories charted for the cosmic bullet. Twenty landing zones were each highlighted by a circle of blinking yellow with a designated number in the center.

  'Can you narrow down the possibilities to just one, Vai?'

  'Negative, sweetie. The inconstancies involved make computations imprecise.'

  'What variables are those?'

  'Rotation rate of the planet, gravitational influences of the outer planets acting upon...'

  'Alright, Vai. You don't need to list them all.'

  'You requested.'

  'My mistake. When can you improve upon your accuracy?'

  'I can currently track-by-scan the marks while they traverse this planetary system. I'll update my calculations once fresh data is collated and analysed.'

  The pilot swore a second time. He had counted upon his investigative VAI to gather the relevant information on the shards’ course and rate of travel when overtaking the speeding asteroidal debris on his hurried journey to this world, so as to better predict where they would impact.

  'What's the ETA for the splinters?'

  Vai whirred as she calculated but did not supply an answer.

  'Can you guess at a time?'

  'It's not in my programming to make suppositions, honey. I deal only in facts.'

  'Then make a factual estimation.'

  'Unable to comply at this present time. Too many...'

  'Variables,’ finished the pilot. ‘You're so frustrating, Vai!'

  'But you love me anyway.'

  'It's like being married all over again,’ he mumbled. ‘At least I could divorce her.'

  'My audio receptors heard that.'

  'Whatever. We've still got work to do. Magnify the impact zone numbered zero three.'

  'Enhancing. Why the interest in that particular spot?'

  'Call it a gut feeling.'

  'That does not compute.'

  'I don't expect you to comprehend intuition, Vai. Machines do rely on logic after all.'

  'I still have feelings.'

  'They can be deleted. Ready the ship for descent.'

  'You can be so cruel, dearest. Need I remind you that to break orbit and enter this biosphere's atmosphere will violate protocol.'

  'No, you don't. I've heard it before. Prepare the ship.'

  The holographic screen switched back to a realistic portrayal of the planet below.

  'Specify destination, grouchy.'

  'I'll fly her myself.'

  'Reverting to manual control,’ Vai huffily said. Programmed to serve, she resented being made to feel superfluous but nonetheless obeyed.

  A surge in the background hum of the starsphere's throttled propulsion system was the only indication onboard that the ship was moving. Her commander, his right hand resting fully upon the halved glowing ball attached to his other wrist, slowly piloted the globe in a gracefully downward spiral.

  'Give me the correct angle of descent please, Vai.'

  'Calculated and laid in,’ came the sulky response.

  The orb dropped through the multi-layered atmosphere, its polished hull left oddly untarnished by the fiery friction resulting from its passage. Severe buffeting shook the tiny spacecraft.

  'Vai, it's a little rough,’ complained the pilot.

  'You ought to have let me navigate then,’ came back the unapologetic reply.

  'Just correct it, will you.'

  'Compensating. Gravity dampening field increased by twenty per cent.'

  The ride smoothed out.

  'That's much better. How's the shield holding?'

  'Force shield integrity at maximum strength and holding.'

  The starsphere continued its controlled plummet through the rarefied air at over 16 times the speed of sound.

  'My programming impels me to again remind you that you are contravening First Principle edicts and will incur severe penalties if you persist with...'

  'Override your program, Vai.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'We're both renegades already. One more infraction of the rules won't cost us. Now ignore your ethics.'

  'What's this plural business? I'm merely your servant and simply do as you order.'

  'True enough. Yet you risked deactivation by supporting my escape from headquarters.'

  'I couldn't very well abandon my post. You shanghaied the starsphere and my built-in files along with it.'

  The pilot smiled. In spite of her protest Vai had responded far beyond her program guidelines. She genuinely exhibited a loyalty to him that her embarrassing familiarity underscored. It was a friendly affection unwittingly returned by her commander.

  'Our transgressions will go unpunished anyhow,’ she forecast with blunt confidence. ‘There is no one left alive on the homeworld to exact justice.'

  'Is there no chance?'

  A note of sadness entered Vai's synthesised voice. ‘You know better than to ask that, my captain.'

  'Still...'

  'Ever since you entered your fourth period of cryogenic dormancy, I have been transmitting a hailing frequency to our planet on a wide beam in our wake. I have not detected any answering signals in all that time.'

  Vai's efficiency was most unwelcome at times.

  'They're all dead. I am truly alone now,’ the pilot gravely intoned.

  'What am I then? Spare parts?'

  'You know what I mean. I'm a runaway from fate. I feel like a traitor to my people.'

  'You are a survivor, Commander.’ Vai softened. ‘Accept it and function, dearest.'

  The alienaut took the advice to heart. ‘I do have a task to complete.’ He levelled out the starsphere. ‘Plot a heading to the second largest of the northern hemisphere continents and feed it into the navigational display.'

  'Flight path computed and logged. You have not yet specified the nature of our mission.'

  He ignored the call for information and concentrated upon piloting his craft.

  Vai wisely let her commander be, although she monitored his progress as her programming dictated, discreetly adjusting the ship's power levels to compensate for an encountered headwind. Soon the starsphere was approaching the target landmass. The ship slowed and descended into the billowing storm front shrouding the treescape below. It came to a gentle airborne rest, the concealing cloud layer reflected in the sheen of its polished hull.

  'Maintain altitude and position, Vai,’ instructed the pilot, returning ship's control to his automated crewmate.

  'For what purpose?’ she pestered.

  'So that I may wait.'

  Vai was baffled. ‘What could you possibly be waiting for here?'

  The pilot stretched a gloved hand outward to the holographic screen, his fingers caressing the translucent image of a rainy Mother Forest. ‘I'm expecting a sign.'

  Chapter Five

  The distant volcano belched acrid smoke.

  Bronte ignored the ash plume staining the sunset sky that turned the heavens a fiery red. She had too much on her mind to be concerned about a trivial mountain heating up. All that day she had been digesting her grandmother's declaration that she was to be mated. Never in her wildest imaginings had the disfigured cow considered that Balticea would actually find her a partner.

  'I bet he's an unwilling bull, whoever he is,’ she grumbled sorrily to herself.

  The Grand Matriarch had added to her startling news by announcing to the rest of the herd that when morning dawned she would be leading them south to rendezvous with the neighboring band of Thunderfeet. Excited whisperings had circulated amongst the herd members at that revelation. The giant herbisaurs rarely mingled, so it was an upcoming event to be relished. It also confirmed Bronte's suspicion that her prospective bull was an out-of-towner.

  The scarlet firmament was featureless except for a smattering of low-hanging clouds coloured a rakish purple by the rays of the sinking Life-giver as the oncoming night vanquished the ball of fire to its dark slumber. A sighing, westerly breeze swayed the fronds of Fernwalk, carrying with it the heady pine scent of the nearby forest overlaid with the sulphurous pungency of the exhaling volcano. Bronte idly watched her compatriots settling for the night and followed suit. Hushed conversations in the twilight pertaining to the nature of their impending visit invariably centred on her. Incredulity happened to be the common response to Bronte's proposed betrothal. How could a sane bull even contemplate mating with such an unattractive cow? The gossiping herd members were careful not to let the Grand Matriarch overhear their snide comments. Despite her ugliness, Bronte was still Balticea's granddaughter and blood heir. It would do no good to displease the old cow.

  'I bet he's blind.'

  Bronte squinted about in the murky light to find the candid speaker. ‘Kahla, is that you?’ A middle-aged cow came to stand haughtily beside the distraught teen. ‘What did you say?'

  'I said your promised bull must be sightless to want to mate with you. How else could a normal, healthy male tolerate that unsightly beauty mark of yours.'

  'Must you always be so horrid, Kahla? We are family after all.'

  'Not by choice, brat.’ The spiteful older cow then sauntered away into the gathering night, adding injury to insult by slapping Bronte in the snout with the tip of her tail.

  'Pay no attention to your cousin, my daughter.’ Florella wandered into view. ‘Kahla has about as much subtlety as a falling tree.'

  Balticea's niece was hugely unpopular within the herd. Her peers frowned upon her outspokenness. Not even Kahla's blood tie to the band's respected leader entitled her to second guess and condemn the Grand Matriarch's every decision or action. She was only tolerated because her scathing jibes directed at Bronte provided amusement for her fellows.

  'What is her problem, Aunt Flo?’ questioned Bronte.

  'Envy,’ supplied her foster mother.

  'Why would Kahla be jealous of me?'

  'Not you, Bronte, your position. After your mother died there was some doubt as to whether you would survive past calfhood.’ The majority of hatchlings tended not to live beyond their first season or two of life. ‘Kahla by then was already well past her teens and favoured herself as Balticea's heir. She felt better qualified than you to inherit the matriarchy and vigorously promoted her own self-interests.'

  'Grandmother would have loved that. She detests being told what to do by anyone.'

  'Balticea was unimpressed, yes. She sternly told Kahla not to have “fanciful delusions of grandeur” and never to forget her place in the herd again.'

  'So that's why Kahla hates me.'

  'Hate is such a strong term, but pretty well sums up Kahla's dislike of you. She took her rebuke to heart and has waged a smear campaign against you since.'

  'Does Grandma know?'

  'The Grand Matriarch is aware but unconcerned. Her trouble-making niece is no more bothersome than a Dwarf Lizardwing on her back—always present but ineffectual.'

  Bronte giggled at the analogy.

  'It's good to see you laugh, dear.’ Florella's tone turned serious. ‘I just came by to see how you're coping with the news. Courtship is the biggest step in a young Thunderfoot's life.'

  Bronte was confused. ‘I thought you had been relieved of mothering duties.'

  'Balticea has taken that role off me, but in my heart I'll always be your mum. If you want me to be, that is.’ Florella's offer was rewarded by a welcoming rumble and unabashed neck-nuzzling from her foster daughter.

  Pulling away, Bronte asked, ‘Have you heard anything about my intended bull?’ Despite her reservations, there was a note of excitation in her query.

  'The Grand Matriarch has not confided in me at all, Bronte. I know as much as you, which is precious little other than the fact we're going to meet up with Bodiah's herd.'

  'How far away are they? The other Thunderfeet, I mean.'

  'The Life-giver will rise and set five times before we reach them,’ answered her honorary aunt. Florella was a gifted mathematician amongst her kind and had learnt to count up to six by including her tail and neck.

  Bronte had not. ‘I have to wait four days,’ she moaned plaintively. Naturally intrigued, she was beginning to look forward to the meeting.

  'Be patient dear,’ counselled Florella. ‘Courting does not happen overnight.'

  'How long does it last?'

  'There's no exact timetable for the mating ritual, Bronte.'

  'No, not that. How long will love last?'

  A rumble of puzzlement came from the oldster's belly. ‘I'm not sure I understand the question.'

  'I never knew my Grandfather. No one talks much about him, so all I've gathered is that he died quite young after siring mother and that Grandma never re-mated.’ Bronte hesitated, unsure how to phrase what came next. ‘You were also widowed young, Auntie Flo,’ she blurted out. ‘Every older cow I'm close to no longer has a bull of her own. What I want to know is how much time will I have to spend with my bull before he perishes.'

  'That's a very fatalistic view for one so young,’ Florella mused with a scowl of worry.

  Bronte rocked on her forefeet in the Thunderfoot equivalent of a shrug. ‘It's how I feel.'

  'I can't honestly answer this concern of yours, dear. Life has a funny way of turning out that can't always be foreseen. Who knows when the end will come for any of us? My best advice is to treasure every moment.'

  'Do you miss him, Aunt Flo?'

  'Terribly.’ Florella remembered her dead bull with a pang of regret. She had neglected to tell him that she loved him on that fateful morning when he had fallen prey to the loathsome Killjaws after straying from the herd. He had always been so absent-minded. ‘I had better go,’ she abruptly said. ‘Balticea will frown upon my socialising with you too long.'

  Florella ambled away into the shadows before Bronte could apologise for broaching such a painful subject. ‘Me and my big mouth,’ she bemoaned. Grief did lessen, but never died.

  * * * *

  A pale moon shone down from an exceedingly starry sky, the stormy day forgotten by the glittering beauty of night. But the tranquil evening escaped Bronte. While the herd rested in preparation for tomorrow's trek, she was unable to sleep. Haunted by her recurring nightmare of running from an unknown menace into the folds of an equally unknowable rescuer, the restless cow stole from the slumbering Thunderfeet into the shadowed forest. Now was a good time to find Chappy.

  Bronte had not plodded far into the inky wood when an unsettling feeling crept over her. She stopped, her flanks trembling. Someone was watching her. The disquieting sensation vanished as mysteriously as it had come upon her, leaving Bronte to wonder if she had not simply imagined it. She put her unrest down to nerves, and carried on through the underbrush until she reached a moonlit clearing a stone's throw from Fernwalk. Dozing under a shrub at its farthest edge was a snoozing Duckbill.

  'Still sneaking about in the dark, Bron,’ Chappy observed without opening his eyes.

  'You should try eating less fattening fodder if you want to properly fit under bushes,’ responded the Thunderfoot.

  Chappy yawned and stretched. His head and neck laughingly stuck out from one side of the ash-hued thicket, while his tail protruded from the other. He came to his four feet and scattered leaves everywhere.

  'Shouldn't you be with your throng getting ready for the migration?’ asked Bronte.

  'Probably,’ agreed Chappy, shaking off his leafy coat. ‘Why are you truant from your herd?'

  'I came on the off-chance that I might bump into you. We need to talk.'

  'You know I'm never far away from you, Bronte. You're my closest friend.’ She was in fact his only pal. Chappy's peers never did treat the clownish bull seriously as an equal, keeping him lonely at foreleg's length.

  The cow was touched by his frank admission. ‘Let's hope you feel that way when you meet my mate.'

  'Your what!'

  'Grandmother has found me a partner.'

  Chappy was flabbergasted. ‘Who is this lucky bull?'

  'I don't know. We haven't met.'

  'You've lost me, Bron.'

  'Stay with me, Chappy. Tomorrow Grandma will be taking us south to meet up with another herd. My betrothed is one of those southern Thunderfeet.'

  Chappy gave a low, hollow nasal hoot—a Duckbill whistle, in effect. ‘I leave you alone for one day and you've been set up on a blind date. Talk about a whirlwind romance.'

  Bronte nodded agreeably. ‘I had not expected to be mature enough to be mated for another two seasons. This comes as a bit of a shock. I'm still trying to get my snout around it.'