Captain S’linth tasted the air. The bridge of the Resaurian ship Dutiful Burden smelled of fear-sweat and musk. The hard plates inside his mouth secreted digestive juices that burned with an acidic taste at the back of his throat.

He stepped to the fore of the bridge, within striking distance of the massive viewing screen. Trusting his crew to navigate the spit, S’linth allowed himself a moment to stare into the Demon’s face. Oblivion stared back. The maw opened wide as the Resaurian ship descended, the Demon snarling at the stars above, showing its hatred for all life. His Burden trembled as a new wave broke over the bow.

“Ten ris-units and closing, Captain,” said First Navigator Th’osh. “Gravimetric tides are increasing. Perhaps we should make our offering now.”

An idea that would not sit well with the ship’s Council-appointed overseer. Looking back, he saw Suliss stir, rising out of his self-induced torpor.

S’linth pouched his neck muscles. “Your scales are dry, Th’osh,” he snapped at the navigator. “Control your fear, or slither back to your quarters. Tradition dictates our offering to be given at no farther away than two ris-units.”

Calming, Suliss nodded. Among Resaurians, tradition held the full weight of law. Th’osh bowed his head, nictitating membranes rolling over black eyes in a gesture of submission. “My apologies.” The ship shook again, and Th’osh thumped his tail against the deck.

“Accepted,” S’linth told him, not wanting to ruin the Resaurian by frightening him out of service. Th’osh was young, barely over his second adult shedding. By comparison, the soft scales on S’linth’s belly were larger and darker than the armored ones on Th’osh’s back. The youthful navigator had several centuries of life to look forward to, and would live better helping to maintain the small Resaurian fleet than he would coiled up in a planetside nest.

“Any other difficulties?” S’linth asked. His obsidian gaze roamed the bridge.

Only his communications officer, Lyssis, met his gaze. “I am still detecting the subspace signal on our emergency bands.”

He faced back toward the front of the bridge. The signal again. It had bothered him ever since breaking orbit over Resaurus. An inconstant, open subspace signal. This was new. New always presented a problem. “No modulation?”

“No intelligent modulation, Captain. It continues to act like an open channel, except for the slowly shifting tone.”

“It is outside of tradition,” Suliss whispered. “Ignore it. We will make our offering, and return home.”

But S’linth refused to ignore anything that might prove a hazard. Space travel was not for the hide-bound. He continued to consider possibilities. A beacon. A nonstandard beacon, since the tone was not quite constant and would break off at irregular periods. An energy signature, warped by the gravimetric forces. Something about it felt familiar, but nothing S’linth could find in the traditions offered any help.

“Continue to monitor,” he ordered. “Science station, prepare the offering.”

The bridge crew functioned automatically, many following the traditional course of actions they had learned by rote. Science announced that the offering was ready. Navigation called down the distance as the Dutiful Burden crawled carefully out over the Demon’s maw. This cycle, S’linth planned to take his Burden to zero ris-units. As the vessel eased to a halt over the promontory, he crossed arms over his scaly chest and spoke the Council’s words.

“May our offering ease any suffering, shine hope in the darkness, and keep the forces within banished for another cycle.”

Science station launched the Resaurians’ offering as S’linth finished the traditional speech. A crash of metal against metal leaked up through the deck, followed by an electrical scream as the firing mechanism shoved the duranium-encased load out into space. On the viewscreen, it looked like a giant, faceted-nose bullet being shot down the mouth of the Demon.

Something…

“Tracking,” Th’oth announced, busying himself with sensors feed. “Good signal. It looks as if the offering will be accepted with favor.” He paused. “Signal is flattening out. Signal is constant.” Softly, but not so softly that S’linth could not hear, the young Resaurian said, “Now we can get away from here.”

Signal is constant!

S’linth coiled about, turning his back on the Demon. Weak legs pushed out from his belly to form a tripod with his thick tail, giving him greater stability. He pointed one muscular arm at his communications officer. “The subspace signal! The beacon. Over what range does it vary?”

Lyssis recoiled, then turned her gaze back to her panel. “Over what time?” she asked.

“Since leaving Resaurus.”

“No more than twenty-five percent, plus or minus.”

Slowly, he turned back around to stare into the abyss. The Demon stared back. “And it repeats. In between breaks, it must repeat.”

“It shows no pattern in between breaks,” Lyssis said, checking the logs. “No, wait. I see a repeating pattern between the fifth and eleventh, and the sixth and twelfth recurrence. And…now between the first and fifteenth. Captain? What does that mean?”

Suliss watched him intently, no doubt ready to argue that tradition demanded they return home. Now. S’linth tasted the air, and the fear-sweat was stronger. Once his people learned that the Demon was speaking to them, the scent would be overpowering. But tradition demanded that he tell his crew.

And tradition was law.

He nodded at the viewscreen. “I know what this is.”