“Sabin!” Bren yelled. “Look out!”
Fastest he could think, and the desired result: her security moved to protect her, bodies between her and any conceivable threat, and up against the wall, trying to get to the lift.
“Sabin, we’re in the lift! That’s safe!”
Fire broke out from the place Jenrette had occupied before, the intersecting hall a little down from the lift. Two of Sabin’s party went down, a third hit.
Banichi ran; Bren dived after him, a hard sprint down the corridor toward what had become a firefight. They passed Jago’s position; passed the lift, where Kasari held the doorway, no one in position to get the sniper that was taking down Sabin’s guard.
The sniper put his head and his sidearm around the corner.
Banichi braked so fast Bren nearly hit him; braked, and fired, and the sniper vanished backward, leaving an appalling spatter against the opposing wall.
Fire had stopped from Sabin’s party; Banichi flattened himself against the wall and whipped around that corner, but the immediate relaxation told the tale, and Bren didn’t think he wanted to see the damage that had left its evidence on that other wall.
Banichi wasn’t so fastidious. He squatted down, collected items from Jenrette’s pockets, a sidearm, a pocket com and a handheld, on each of which he killed the power with a press of his thumb.
Those were worth later investigation.
Sabin arrived, her guard battered and bloody, herself with a bloody forearm and a ripped sleeve.
“Mr. Cameron?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is that Mr. Jenrette?”
“Yes, ma’am.” They didn’t have time for question and answer. There was that ship moving in. “Dr. Kroger’s out there trying to defuse whatever-it-is, we’ve got the station up there, we dislodged Braddock from Central and blew the Archive. Captain Graham’s boarding civilians fast as he can. We took the alien hostage Braddock was holding, we’re trying to get communication with him, and last I heard, his ship’s moving in, but we’re talking to it.”
Several blinks. “Not half bad for a day’s work.”
He was numb. He had a dead man at his feet. And a captain who’d tried her best to take the station from inside, with the force she had. And not done a bad job of it, counting she’d ended up at the right place to secure the fuel, the high card she’d known the station held. “Captain Graham will want you aboard soon as possible.”
“Possible, once we get the fuel flowing.” Sabin gave a glance aside as Banichi stood up; and up. “Hato,” she said. Ragi, for good. It applied to food and drink, not quite apt.
But Banichi understood.
And called Jago. “Jago. Jenrette is dead. Sabin-aiji is safe.”
Jago said something that made Banichi smile.
“Barnhart has found Gin-aiji,” Banichi reported. “She has swum up to the camera and made encouraging signals. One believes she is in direct communication with Jase.”
“Get my wounded aboard,” Sabin said. “I’ll handle the fuel.”
“Get them into the lift,” Bren said. “We’ll manage. Fast as we can.—Banichi-ji. We are requested to take the wounded back as quickly as we can. Sabin-aiji will manage here.”
“Yes,” Banichi said, and relayed orders to his associates in three positions.
They’d done it. His knees felt weak. They’d actually done it. It didn’t feel done. They’d been attacked from two fronts and the middle, and the way down wasn’t guaranteed safe—particularly sneaking a handful of very tall atevi back on board; but they did what they could.
“I have Jase’s key,” he confessed to Sabin. “I need it to get them back.” Meaning the wounded, and the handful of techs in their keeping.
“You’re just full of tricks,” Sabin said. “Go lock those section doors with that key, Mr. Cameron—I trust you know how to do that—and then get that thing back aboard the ship. Fast.”
The lord of the heavens had his bailiwick and his arena of understanding; it didn’t include ship’s operations, or that fueling station; and when Sabin suggested locking the critical doors with an unbreachable lock, barring all station access to this place, it seemed a good idea to do exactly that, and fast.
19
“Go,” Bren said to their detainees, once the lift car reached the mast entry level—one expected that to be the most desolate area of the station; but it was jammed with refugees, men, women, children carrying other children and parents carrying baggage—and their detainees vanished into jammed lines of refugees. Terror rippled the lines as unprepared stationers saw atevi exit the car, but they were locked in that essential fact of station life, the line, the line that gave precedence, the line in which all things were done and solved, the line which meant entitlement—in this case, to ship-boarding; and the line buckled.
“They’re from Alpha!” Bren shouted. “They are, and I am! Pass it on! We have injured people here—excuse us. We need through to medical immediately, please!”
They didn’t have access to station communications; but word of mouth rippled both ways in the moving lines—lines ultimately diced and packeted by the lift.
They had one of ship’s security, walking wounded: Barnhart had an arm around him, helping him along. There were three who couldn’t walk, one in bad condition, and Ilisidi’s men carried them like children, gear and all—atevi protocols: Banichi and Jago had their lord present, and guarded him, and that was the way of things. So he went, scaring evacuees—until humans saw a bona fide mission of mercy, and blood, and atevi carrying human wounded toward the ship. Then stares attended them, and confusion swayed the line, but no panic ensued.
“Excuse us,” Bren said, all the lengthy way up the line to the lift. “Excuse us. We have to get to medical. Urgent. Excuse us.”
He was breathing hard, despite the lightest of station gravity. They reached the lift, and stationers there, next in line for salvation, clearly didn’t want to wait—“We have children,” the head of the line objected.
“We have a man critical,” Bren said, in this contest of crises. “Ship’s officer. We can take the children through with us, if you want. Rest a minute. Protect those kids’ faces. It’s a long cold on the other side.”
The man didn’t half know. Frustration, fear and resentment of alien presence were all in that expression; but he was willing to argue with ship personnel and half a dozen towering aliens to get to a safety that—he hadn’t thought it through—likely had more such aliens in charge; and Bren didn’t altogether blame him for his confusion. If a station was going into critical failure, as these people began to realize, it was a very thin bubble in a very big dark, and anywhere with air, light, and power was life itself.
The lift car arrived. Bren crowded his own party in and punched the button, no key. The car shot off, express for the mast; and they were alone for the moment, hoping that Sabin, upstairs, was managing the fueling station without interference.
But the more that line of refugees grew, the more people would begin to realize the station was in trouble; and when neighbors started leaving, people started calling those they cared about. By now, anyone calling Central might not get through. And a failure of communications meant a spread of rumor, in a station already half-dead, already having lost one essential asset, and all protection from alien incursion. Families were taking the ship’s offer. Individuals with non-critical jobs were. Probably a few with critical jobs had begun to weigh staying and going, and if one bolted—more would.
Faster and faster. More and more desperate. They’d gotten through a line reasonably well-ordered and willing to reason, in this early stage of the evacuation. Later—as systems started failing—panic was going to pack more and more people into that line.
“We still cannot reach Asicho, nandi,” Jago said.
“Soon, at least, Jago-ji,” he said. “One believes Gin has relayed reassurances to Jase. And perhaps Sabin-aiji has gotten through.”
Warning lights flashed red. Th
e car began deceleration and the comfortable illusion of up and down shifted, an assault on a stomach already uncertain—he didn’t like this, didn’t like it, stared at the indicators for proof of their location in time and space, reassurance of destination imminent.
The car stopped. They were weightless. And a startled Phoenix crew member met them.
“If you’ve got com,” Bren said, “advise Captain Graham we’re coming, with injured crew.”
“Yes, sir,” the crewwoman said.
The lighted conveyor ran past them. Bren grabbed it one-handed, felt it take the mass of Banichi and Jago behind him and then, presumably, Barnhart and one crewman; and Ilisidi’s men, with two of Sabin’s, as best they could.
There was little stress on the arm, enough to prove they were moving, while all he could see was the glowing ribbon winding through a vast, numbing-cold dark: an illusion of infinity, that ribbon interrupted by silhouettes. In the far distance, dots that were families interrupted the glow, refugees, holding together, half-frozen and caught in nothing, in nowhere—thank God, Bren thought, that the lighted ribbon did move, and moved with a fair dispatch, because if ever some one of the refugees let go and became lost off the ribbon, they might lodge up in the unseen recesses, helpless, to freeze before rescue could find them. The conveyor was designed for the able-bodied.
Clips, he thought. They ought to find clips somewhere.
The ribbon had an end. Or a returning-point, where it doubled back. And there were a few clips floating past, attached. Someone was using his imagination.
There were crewmen at that end-point. Safety. And nothing would hurry this line. Bren watched the crew help one after another clumps of people into the tube, and onto the next conveyor line.
Their turn came. Crew had seen them coming.
“We’ve got wounded,” Bren said. “For two-deck.” And the masked, parka-clad crewmen delayed them not at all, only sent them up the umbilical connection to the ship itself.
Faster trip, this.
“Mr. Cameron, sir.” Welcome voice, behind that mask: Kaplan met them on two-deck; Kaplan and Polano; and medics, instantly taking charge of the wounded.
“Sabin’s alive. At the fuel station,” Bren said. Kaplan deserved that information. “Need to see the captain.”
“Go right on up, sir.” Kaplan held the lift door for him and his, and let the door shut once they were inside.
Light. Glorious, brilliant light, and warmth. Air that didn’t feel like the same substance as that burning chill outside. A solid feel to the deck under his feet. It was like emerging from near drowning. Everything was sharp-edged. Every familiar sight was new.
And the handheld worked, if numb fingers could get it out of his pocket and hold on to it. It gave him a series of images his watering eyes couldn’t quite bring into focus; one dark. One was an animation. They were talking to the alien ship. One—one was a suited figure in a lot of dark, beside machinery. Gin. He didn’t know how to bring in the audio, and lost the image.
“Damn!” he said, then, conscious of his companions, and then of the fact their personal electronics were in contact again, and that Asicho, belowdecks, was likewise receiving: “Asa-ji, we are all well.” And to his immediate company. “My fingers are numb. But they seem to be talking to the foreign ship and Gin-aiji seems still at work outside. Perhaps Jase-aiji wishes now to move the ship closer to take on fuel, but with people coming aboard in bitter cold, impossible to hold them off.”
“This ship cannot in any wise maneuver,” Jago observed.
“One believes,” he began to say, but the lift reached its destination and let them out on the bridge: him, his bodyguard, Barnhart, and the dowager’s men, all of them, he suddenly realized, in the pristine cleanliness of the bridge, bloody and sweaty and reeking of fumes as their clothes thawed, their whole party laden down with all sorts of battle-gear.
Jase met them the moment they cleared the short partition, met him and seized him by the shoulder. “Bren. What’s the story over there?”
“Sabin’s at fueling ops, the archive’s blown, Central’s out, and we left word on several levels to evacuate—which people seem to be doing, fast as they can. What’s this side?”
“We’re running out of pictures to send, that ship’s still moving in, and Gin’s out there in short-range communication. We’ve got fuel if we could move to get it. If the station doesn’t go unstable before we can get the fuel off. That’s our problem. Yours is down on five-deck. We need our houseguest to talk to that ship out there. We need time, Bren. We’ve got to get an emergency crew onto the station to keep it stable and keep it running.”
“It’s not secure over there. Braddock’s still alive. Jenrette isn’t. But Sabin’s got the section doors locked on the fuel center. There were several tries at us while we were taking it.”
“Station’s getting shorter-handed by the hour, and we can talk to them.” Jase gave a shake at his shoulders. “We can talk to station. You can talk to the other side of this situation. Get us some time and everything’s a lot better.”
“Understood,” Bren said. He was shivering from recent bone-chill, at that floating-feeling stage of exhaustion, but Jase was right, no question. “I’ll handle it. Key.” He remembered it, and took it from his pocket and gave it back.
“One is grateful, nadiin-ji: one is extremely grateful.” With a small bow to the atevi in general. “Barnhart.” A nod, a warm handshake. “Get a rest.”
“Rest isn’t likely,” Barnhart said. “But I’ll get on it.”
“Nadiin,” Bren said, gathering his company, and went straight back to the lift. Bath, he was thinking, warm bath, warm up the surface, get the brain working, maybe one of Bindanda’s tea cakes and a hot drink: he had to shift gears, get his thoughts out of fight and on to the delicate business of communication. Fast.
He shoved the handheld and its problems into his pocket on the way to the lift—got in, and started to give a surreptitious sniff at his hand, wondering whether fumes had adhered to his skin as well as his clothes and whether he could forego the bath; and saw it spattered with dried blood.
Bath, he thought. There were certain things one didn’t want to explain. God knew what evidence his face had. Barnhart’s coat was bloody. Atevi uniforms were no better off, and Banichi—
The blood seeping down Banichi’s fingers wasn’t old, and Banichi hadn’t been helping the wounded.
“Banichi. How bad? How long?”
“Minor,” Banichi said. “Minor, Bren-ji. Not long.”
“Jago-ji, be sure of it.”
“Yes,” Jago said, and sternly, when Banichi only looked as if he might object, “yes, nadi.”
“Yes,” Banichi said, which took one crisis off the paidhi’s mind.
“One will be grateful if you take it as a first priority,” he said, as the lift reached five-deck and the door opened. “Barnhart. Owe you a drink.”
“I’ll collect,” Barnhart said, and went off his direction, toward the Mospheiran domain; Bren and his bloodstained band went straight on, to request entry—which came before they could so much as signal: thank Asicho for that.
“Nandi.” Respects, from Ilisidi’s guards.
He acknowledged the courtesy and kept walking briskly, intending to deliver most of his company to the dowager’s staff, to the dowager’s staff medic, intending to have that bath, too, before he thought about the problems of the alien ship.
A brief stop at the security station, where Asicho, one of Gin’s men and one of Ilisidi’s all sat duty: “Nadiin-ji, we are all back aboard, mission accomplished.” They would have heard everything he said to Jase. “We shall want the doctor as soon as possible. Kindly tell the staff not to divert itself from care of our guest.”
“Yes,” Asicho said; and he kept walking, trying to hammer his wits into an utterly different mode of operation.
He hoped not to be noticed as he passed the dining hall. He wanted no explanations until he was clean again, and until
he and the rest of his staff could shed the firearms and the bag of explosives and such.
But as he passed, he saw the dining hall ominously dimmed, and heard—
Heard vigorous applause, and muted cheers, and lively music.
He slipped in the door, appalled to find a ring of atevi, including the dowager’s security, and his staff, Cajeiri—that was no surprise—and their guest—and the dowager herself. On the screen, in black and white, a cartoon mouse eluded a cartoon cat.
A fishbowl tottered, sloshed, and Cajeiri shouted a warning, pointing out the obvious danger to cartoon protagonists, as cat and mouse darted this way and that in an elemental antagonism innocent of association.
Now . . . with their lives hanging in the balance . . .
A chair went over. Draperies went down. To the dowager’s evident misgiving and Cajeiri’s and Prakuyo’s collective delight.
But by now staff had seen him or heard him, prompting uneasy glances back.
Staff stood up. The dowager looked at him expectantly. And Narani brought up the lights.
Solemn faces, concern. Prakuyo stood up. So did Cajeiri. Only the dowager stayed seated, hands clasped on her staff.
Bren gave a solemn bow. “Nand’ dowager, nandi—” A bow for Prakuyo. None for boys. “Success aboard the station. We are now bring the people aboard. The security staff is intact, except a minor injury. Prakuyo-nadi—” Change of languages, and a second bow. “Your ship speaks to us. It is coming.”
“Ship. Prakuyo ship. Coming.” Anxiety was evident, in every line of Prakuyo’s stance.
A bow. Agreement. “Yes.” A hand-motion. “Coming to us. I go wash.”
“Wash, yes.” Perhaps it was a mad notion. But Prakuyo bowed, apparently in complete agreement with such a crazed proposition. Or he smelled that bad.
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