by Julian May
I had Ivor position the two loaded trolleys to conceal both the Haluk bodies and ourselves from anyone who might be inside the tunnel, and then we resumed our descent. As it happened, the precautions were unnecessary. We alighted into the dank and puddled rock chamber at the bottom of the shaft.
No one was visible in the dripping passage, which dog-legged after a few dozen meters, cutting off the line of sight. The tunnel appeared to be a natural formation only slightly modified to accommodate wheeled vehicles. Tiny lamps, glowing pallidly yellow, were affixed to the walls at wide intervals.
The tireless Ivor stacked the Haluk bodies onto one of the empty carts and wheeled them away into a dark alcove opposite the lighted tunnel. The rushing sound, which I presumed to be an underground watercourse, was somewhat louder in that direction.
We started down the twisting corridor, pushing one of the vector-loaded trolleys as a shield. After about fifteen minutes we reached a downgrade and the floor became artificially corrugated to help restrain the rolling stock. We moved slower and slower so as not to lose control of the trolley and finally reached the tunnel's astonishing end. It opened onto a kind of wide natural balcony edged with a rough-hewn parapet, perched in the upper reaches of an immense vaulted cavern. Golden standard-lamps on the floor far below provided soft illumination. Baroquely ribbed pillars of pink, ocher, and white calcite supported a lofty roof hung with countless stalactites and unusual blade-shaped formations resembling frozen curtains. A long ramp led down from one end of the balcony, curving halfway around the cave's perimeter before reaching the floor.
It was a scene of eerie beauty; but the most remarkable part of it was a sparkling transparent force-umbrella thirty meters in diameter that took up the greater part of the colossal chamber, fending off the moisture dripping incessantly from the speleothems. Beneath it was a raised round stage of what looked like black glass. At its center stood a pedestal surmounted by an irregular cluster of throbbing jewel-colored spheres—amethyst, tourmaline, amber, and deep garnet. They were pierced and entwined with glowing neon-red tubing that branched into multitudinous filaments in the lower reaches of the fantastic construct and appeared to flow down onto the stage and spread across it in all directions like a network of burning ripples on inky water. Surrounding the light-sculpture were row upon circular row of upright clear cases about two meters high—several hundred of them, lit spookily from below by the scarlet web on the floor.
Each case had a body inside.
"Jesus God," I murmured, letting my pistol sag.
The three of us peered over the parapet rim. I flipped down my goggles, switching them to distance mode. As I had suspected, the coffin-shaped receptacles were actually dystasis tanks full of life-supportive fluid, similar to the apparatus that had healed my own comet-scorched carcass. Their contoured internal frames held gracile Haluk, humanoid morphs so unlike the clumsy lepidodermoid phase as to seem a completely different species.
Their skulls were well-formed, crowned by manes of straight platinum hair that drifted in the fluid like fine seaweed. The faces were inhuman and hideous, the skin slate-blue with prominent pale ridges on the forehead, cheeks, and slender elongated neck. Their wide-open eyes were very large, almond-shaped, and brilliant azure overall. Each body was modestly clad in a long silvery shift that left only the arms and long-toed feet exposed, but the characteristic grac-ile wasp-waist was discernible in silhouette.
Haluk technicians dressed in white coveralls moved among the genetic engineering subjects, checking the equipment and making notes on magslates.
Matt had donned her goggles, too. "Helly," she whispered. "The innermost ring of tanks. Look carefully, almost directly opposite from us. Maximum magnification."
I did, and caught my breath in an involuntary gasp of horror as the field of view sharpened.
The hair of one immersed figure wasn't platinum but golden brown, short and curly. Her skin was waxy pale blue, with the pattern of alien ridges only beginning to form on the brow and the lower half of her slender bare arms. Her features. . .
"Oh, Evie," I said. "What the hell have they done to you?"
Chwoik!
A sizzling beam of coherent photons flashed above our heads. Behind us, somebody laughed.
The voice was familiar. "Easy does it, Cap'n Helmut Icicle. Or should I call you Asahel Frost? All of you! Hands up and drop your pistols or you're fried meat."
I hesitated, then opened my fingers and let the stun-gun fall. I heard the weapons of Matt and Ivor hit the rock a moment later.
"Howya doing, Bron?" I said conversationally, lifting my arms. "Or should I call you Quillan McGrath?"
Chapter 18
He was inside the tunnel and his commands echoed hollowly.
"Helly, turn around very slowly. You other two, don't move. Touch the long guns on your backs and you die."
I did as he said, my vision hampered by the goggles still in distance mode. They provided me with an extreme close-up of the hit man's blank-eyed unmemorable face and a foreshortened blurry view of the blaster he held shoulder-high. As I shuffled crabwise I swept my eyes over the dim area behind him. The pupillary zoom of the goggles refocused on a quintet of armed guards standing abreast. Two of them were human and three were gracile Haluk. They wore elaborate fighting suits of flexible armor plating with full protective helmets and carried Allenby carbine stunners larger and more powerful than our Ivanovs.
"Who's that with you, Bron?" I called out. "The Five Musketeers tricked out for Star Wars?"
He said, "Shut up and move away from that cart."
"Whatever you say, hombre."
He had us cold, and it was my fault. Then I noticed that his squad of chuckleheads were pointing their guns toward the rocky ceiling because of restricted space in the passage. Only Elgar himself had us in his sights. The peripheral rangefinder in my optics pinpointed him at 6.2 meters away, far enough so he might not hear me whisper into my intercom mike.
He said, "Here's how it's going to be, Helly. Two of my troops are going to advance and relieve your friends of their other pieces. Then we'll go downstairs and take a brief attitude-adjustment tour—"
As he blabbed away I let my head droop, tongued the headset switch, and breathed instructions. "When I say go, Matt and I hit the deck. Ivor, do a carom body-block and shove the trolley into the tunnel. Matt, try to hose 'em from below with your beamer."
"—so you can see how your sister's looks have improved. The Haluk are getting very efficient at genetic engineering. But then, they've had some excellent teachers."
I raised my head and kept my voice steady and casual. "Whose bright idea was it to transmute Evie into an alien? Yours? Is that supposed to be some kind of ultimate leverage ploy against Simon?"
Bronson Elgar laughed again. "My idea? Not bloody likely. As a matter of fact, the —"
"Go!"
Matt and I took a dive, and Ivor moved with unbelievable speed, whirling about and flinging his great mass against the loaded trolley. It went flying toward the assassin while Ivor rolled across the stone floor toward me.
Elgar was caught flatfooted. He did the only thing possible— fired his Harvey at the oncoming juggernaut. There was a deafening clap of sound as the cart and its cargo of PD32:C2 were blasted to expensive molecules. The tunnel mouth filled with smoke, concealing our assailants and half blinding us. I ripped off my goggles and groped for the lost Ivanov. If I'd had any sense, I'd have switched the eyewear into IR mode, but my only thought was to rid myself of the confusing magnification.
A hail of Allenby magnum stun-flechettes zinged around us, ricocheting off the parapet. I could hear Elgar shouting obscenity-laced orders to his minions, but he made no attempt to blast us. I hoped he wanted to take us alive.
In a half-sitting position and close beside me, Matt struggled to pull her C-G around and bring it to bear on the attackers, but the beamer's sling had snagged on her backpack. I found my pistol, got up on one knee, and let off a wild salvo of d
arts into the swirling murk. Even fighting armor has chinks.
I got lucky and heard an inhuman shriek doppler into a moan. One down.
Ivor was squirming toward us, unarmed, like a bear swimming through swamp gas. God knows where his own Harvey had gotten to. A big dart caught him in the cheek. He grunted, convulsed, and fell motionless.
An instant later another magnum flechette tore through my sleeve, nicking my right arm. I didn't get as full a dose of sleepy-juice as the poor kid had, but enough of the drug entered my system to paralyze that entire side of my body. I dropped the Ivanov again, writhing, and blindsided Matt just as she managed to fire her Claus-Gewitter. Its beam shot impotently toward the cave ceiling.
An instant later Branson Elgar loomed over the two of us. He lifted his blaster and cracked its butt against the side of Matt's head. She collapsed, taking me down with her. I landed on my back, right on top of my pistol. A thunderbolt of agony from my injured ribs lanced through my skull. Somebody screamed and then it was very quiet.
Elgar stared down at us. There were four guards with him, two human and two Haluk, covering us with their Allenby stunners.
"You really are a fucking great nuisance, Cap'n Helly."
"I do my best," I mumbled. The right side of my face had gone numb and suddenly I couldn't see properly out of that eye. I twisted my left arm around cautiously, groping for the Ivanov pinned beneath my torso. The smoke was still fairly thick.
Elgar gave a weary curse and kicked me viciously in the spareribs. The world became a whirlpool of excruciating flame and I heard the screaming start up again. It was me. One more kick and I was gone away into the deep dark.
* * *
When I came around, my wrists were fastened tightly together behind my back, and my ankles were also bound with something that felt like wire. I lay on one of the ubiquitous transport trolleys, being taken for a bumpy ride by a Haluk guard. He had his helmet visor open and his weapon slung across his shoulder. Each small jolt down the washboard corrugations of the wall-ramp caused a small explosion of agony in the part of my chest where Bron had given me the boot. Vomit rose in my throat and I began thrashing, gagging and spewing.
The alien stopped the cart and scrutinized me. His electronically translated voice called out in oddly flat accents.
"Commander Elgar. This one regurgitates and coughs violently. It is possible that he will suffocate if the gastric contents are drawn into his respiratory system. Instructions are required."
Bron, somewhere ahead of us, sounded impatient. "Sit him up and hold his head. That's a water container on his belt. Splash his face when he quits barfing."
"Barfing does not translate," said the alien.
"When he stops throwing up," said one of the human guards helpfully. He had been following behind us.
The artificial voice said something, but I was too consumed by my own misery to hear clearly. The Haluk trooper yanked me roughly into a sitting position. With malice aforethought, I aimed the next round of puke at the polished armor on his legs.
"Go to your incestuous mother's necrotic copulatory orifice," the alien said, skipping aside too late. His human comrade gave a snort of laughter.
I forced out an anguished bellow that was not entirely fictitious.
"What the hell are you doing to him?" Elgar exclaimed in exasperation. He came striding back up the ramp. Ahead, a second cart pushed by the other two guards had come to a halt. The bodies of Matt and Ivor lay on it in a heap.
"One has done nothing to him," my Haluk said. "The prisoner has deliberately filthified this person with gastric ejecta."
Bron still had the HA-3 tucked under his arm and was wearing a dark blue commando sweater, drab pants with cargo pockets, and heavy Timberland trail-stompers. He reached down, detached my flexcanteen, and emptied the contents over my head.
I sputtered and retched one last time. "Thanks. I needed that."
"Damn straight," said the assassin. He stayed well out of ralphing range. "You planning to vomit any more?"
I shrugged one-sidedly. It was a mistake and I flinched from the pain. "Might. Or maybe die on you. I'm a wreck. Half paralyzed. Got bashed all to hell in the jungle when a humpy fell on me. Your little toe-taps busted something else for sure."
He patted my dripping, burr-cut head in mock sympathy. "Too bad. You just hang in there, Cap'n. I'll have a medic look you over in a short-short. You won't die. Not before your time."
He addressed the smirking human trooper. "Chalky, you and Guido go on ahead with Timikak. Put the woman in one of the lockups. I'll decide what to do about her later."
"What about the gorilla?" Chalky inquired, flipping his thumb at Ivor's motionless form.
Bronson Elgar considered for a moment. "Superfluous to requirements. Take him to the number five sump and throw him in."
"Sump?" I croaked apprehensively.
The assassin grinned. "Part of the cavern's drainage system. It flushes into an underground river. Very useful for garbage disposal."
"You fucking bastard!" I lunged at him feebly.
Nonchalantly, he hit my forehead with the heel of his hand. I fell back onto the trolley, enveloped in pain so extravagant that it almost smothered my fury, frustration, and grief.
"Carry on," Elgar said to my Haluk guard. "I'll keep the prisoner covered."
The wheeled cart began to roll again and Bron walked beside it. I lay half conscious on my most severely wounded side, unable to turn over, making involuntary noises with each shuddering intake of breath. We moved off the ramp onto the cave's main floor, past the field-shielded enigma of the genetic-engineering complex, and into a side runnel where bright light shone from an open door.
Another mechanically translated voice spoke loudly. "Don't bring that unsanitary conveyance in here, you fool."
My Haluk guard was apologetic. "Your pardon is besought, Physician Woritak."
A tall male gracile appeared in the doorway. He wore a green smock and pants, a coif thing that concealed his hair, and a translator lavaliere. Hung on a cord around his elongate neck was a diagnosticon device identical to the one that had been used on me by Dr. Fionnula Batchelder of Manukura Community Hospital.
Physician Woritak said, "This, presumably, is the expected patient."
"Yes," said Elgar. "Just get rid of the stun-dart drug so we can interrogate him."
I was so far gone that I hardly cringed.
The physician grunted obscurely. "What kind of interrogation?"
"Human psychotronic machines, of course," Elgar snapped. He muttered something under his breath about frigging thumbscrews, red-hot pokers, and iron bloody maidens being more attractive options, unfortunately unavailable.
Old-fashioned torture would have given me at least a faint hope of lying. But nobody lied to the machines.
"Stand aside, Commander Elgar," said the Haluk doctor, "so that a preliminary examination can be accomplished."
"There's no need for that. Just treat the stun paralysis."
"Not until one assesses the patient's general condition."
"Sweet shit. Well, be careful. He's dangerous."
Woritak bent over me and began waving the diagnosticon above my head and body. When he came to my left arm, the medicuff emitted a warning squeal. The Haluk gave a start of surprise, palpated the thing through my envirosuit, then spoke into some sort of wrist communicator. "Scientist Milik, your presence is required in the hospital annex immediately."
Two hulking lepidos, also gowned in green, stood respectfully behind Physician Woritak. At a gesture from him they picked me up as gently as they could, considering my bound condition, put me on a gurney cot on my stomach, and took me into a well-lit chamber full of exotic equipment. I presumed it was a Haluk-style emergency room.
The lepido orderlies used old-fashioned vibe knives to cut away my vomit-splattered suit and then my underclothes. Any confidence I might have had in Haluk medicine took a nosedive when I saw the doctor summon an e-book from a wall termi
nal and begin tapping through it and reading intently. I hoped the title wasn't Ten Easy Lessons in Human Repair.
When I was naked—but still bound at the wrists and ankles—somebody covered me with a warm sheet of quilted plasfoil. Bron watched without expression, his blaster under one arm. He had dismissed the armored Haluk guard.
A gracile of lesser stature, who looked female to my bleary gaze, entered the room. She wore a white coverall, and around her wasp waist was a utility belt with important-looking technical gadgetry. When she spoke, her voice was guttural and low-pitched. "What is it, Physician Woritak?"
"Milik, what in the name of the Life-giving All-Healer is this device on the human patient's arm? It squeaked when the diagnosticon scanned it."
The female had the lepidos turn me slightly to get a better view of the medicuff. I groaned on general principles.
"It's a measured-dose infusion unit," she said, "intended to provide palliatives and other drugs during convalescence. The human is recovering from some serious dysfunction.
This tiny screen is a pathognomonic monitor that will indicate the condition being treated." She prodded one of the armlet pads. Out of the corner of my operational eye 1 could see words scrolling.
Milik nodded. "Yes. He's recovering from whole-body radiation exposure. Apparently ninety-two percent healed. Colleague, one strongly advises that these wrist restraints be removed at once. They are impeding the human's blood circulation and interfering with the cuff's therapeutic function."
"Negatory," Elgar said brusquely.
"The word does not translate," said Woritak.
"No, goddammit! Frost stays tied up."
"Frost?" said Scientist Milik. "Is that his name?"
"Never mind who he is. Just get busy with the treatment."
The Haluk physician said, "Technician Avelok, release the patient's arms and legs at once." With one stride he invaded Bronson Elgar's personal space, seeming to dare him to do anything about it, and pointed a very long middle finger at the hit man's nose. It was a gesture that signified "fuck you" in any culture, although the translated voice remained level and uninflected. "Listen well. Nobody countermands the medical orders of this one in this one's own hospital. Do you want the patient treated or do you not?"