Free Betrayer of Worlds by Larry Niven, Edward M. Lerner

to the center of the bridge.”
    With its heater on, an empty suit looked no different to infrared sensors than an occupied suit. Clever.
    Backing up as directed, Achilles pointed a head at the main display. “They are almost at the ship.”
    Still standing, Roland reached for the copilot’s console. “Then let’s watch.”
    Roland’s deputy, a dour and sturdy woman named Tabitha Jones-Calvani, led the salvage party aboard the derelict. “It’s not pretty in here,” she reported.
    Helmet cameras told as much. Corpses floated about, contorted, dotted with lesions. Even knowing what to expect, Achilles felt nauseous.
    The Pak were humanoid, although shorter than humans. Their leathery skin was like armor. Their limbs were heavily muscled, and their joints enormous to take the strain. In death, many hands curled like claws—with wicked talons protruding.
    These were born warriors.
    “No, it’s not pretty,” Roland answered. “Take it slow and be safe.”
    Achilles could only agree. He watched the humans fan out to search theship. They remained sealed in their spacesuits, and their boot magnets let them walk despite the lack of gravity.
    Here and there, as the intruders proceeded, they found Pak belted to their stations. Panels were removed, racks extended, and components scattered about. Cabling snaked everywhere, looking improvised. Achilles managed to respect their doomed efforts to survive, wondering what they thought to construct that could change—anything.
    “Approaching the bridge, I think,” Tabitha said. “The bow, in any case.”
    “Take it slow,” Roland repeated.
    Helmet lamps sent bright spots skittering about, revealing more bodies and scavenged equipment. The camera through which Achilles looked wobbled as its wearer sidestepped yet another floating corpse. The body was frozen, its mouth agape, in a final paroxysm.
    “Poor bastard,” someone muttered.
    “He would kill you if he could,” another answered.
    “How many bodies did—?” Achilles stopped. Something in the image had changed. In an open equipment bay: a bit of red glow, where all had been shadow before.
    Screaming began. It was unworldly, inhuman. All around the camera’s suddenly spasmodic point of view, images writhed and jerked.
    “Finagle!” Roland shouted. He nodded at a console, at external sensor readouts. “The ramscoop field is back up. Without a crew bubble.”
    Too late, they knew what the dying Pak had been up to. Setting a trap. Everyone on that ship was as good as dead. Achilles galloped for the hyperdrive control.
    There was a hiss like an angry swarm of purple pollinators: Roland’s stunner. It was a warning shot, and Achilles backed away from the console. His legs tingled from the near miss.
    “We can save them!” Roland yelled, standing at the midrange comm console. “If I can kill that field quickly.”
    The communications laser was powerful enough to cross a solar system. Up close it was a fearsome weapon. It might destroy the repaired field generator, or the power plant that fed it, without killing all the humans aboard. At the least, it would kill with merciful quickness.
    Roland reached for the transmit button and—
    The second Pak trap snapped shut its jaws.

9

    The Fleet of Worlds had once held
six
worlds. On one of the six, then known simply as Nature Preserve Four, a few million humans had faithfully served the Citizens. As farmers, factory workers, eventually scouts: grateful humans did everything they could for their benefactors and mentors. They knew themselves to be descended from an embryo bank recovered from a derelict ramscoop found adrift in space. There had been, they were taught, no clues aboard to the location of the ship’s point of origin.
    And then those servants discovered the whole truth:
Citizens
had attacked the ancient ship when it risked finding Hearth.
    The chain reaction at the galactic core had just been revealed, and the Fleet of Worlds had just cast off its tie to