Placing the bowls on the tables, she turned back to the short corridor and the galley, contemplating for a split second just taking one of their PR19s where it lay and getting this over with. Stick to the plan, she cautioned herself and kept on toward the galley—where her own rifle lay on the bench, unsafetied, its selector on STUN. Reaching the bench, she took up a spoon and tapped the end of the handle on the counter three times hard, the signal to Piers.
“Hooray for rich man’s food stores,” she told her fellow Tacticals and spooned a little broth into her mouth. It was warm and chunky as vomit and she swallowed without chewing, forcing it down. In the lounge, the others started on theirs with more gusto.
I could have poisoned them, dammit, she realized belatedly—just as her retinaid display blinked to life in the corner of her vision. Too late now.
The feed had also started up in Umby’s retinaid, she knew. It was coming from Piers’s suit comms, her own wetware simply providing the hack, the channel to his. The big Tactical had sat down already, but he stiffened now, frowning, dropped his spoon and felt around for it, staring into space. A still image of Piers’s face had appeared “onscreen” to identify the sender, and simple text flowed slow enough for even Umbrano to read.
Colonel, we’re good. We reach Hipparcos in five days. You promise you’ll give Umbrano’s share to me when we arrive? I’m happy if you keep Jogianto’s. I just don’t want to kill them for nothing.
Ana left the spoon in her bowl and slipped along the counter to where the rifle lay. Umby was staring into space, his soup forgotten, his jaw slack. You’ve intercepted a signal meant for Fowler, dumbass. Believe it. Read it and believe it! Her fingers brushed the trigger guard of her PR19.
Then again, both these morons have to die, I get that, Piers added for good measure. Can’t wait to see how you kill Umbrano.
The Tactical’s eyes widened. His face flushed, lips curling back from his teeth as his head swung toward a startled Fowler.
“Umby,” the Colonel said. He was still standing. Instinct made him put his soup bowl down hard. “What in …?”
The big Tactical bellowed gibberish, launching himself from the booth, thrusting his spoon like a blade at Fowler’s eyes while his other hand swung around as if going for a grip on Fowler’s ear. The colonel ducked both, Umby’s arms sailing over his head. Fowler drove a shoulder into the bigger man’s chest, slammed a fist into his side. From there, Ana lost track of the details. The two men grappled, crashing to the floor, snarling and grunting. She snatched up her rifle, aimed it—but held off shooting. Maybe she should let one man cripple the other before shooting them. Maybe—
Fowler had one hand free, scratching at his side holster. Pan had let them keep their 12-mils now; there was no damn way she was letting the colonel fire that in here. As his pistol came free, she braced her rifle and got off a trio of shots. One knocked the TK7 out of Fowler’s hand, another hit him elsewhere. Umbrano got one solid punch into his C.O.’s face before Ana’s third shot struck him full on the top of the head. He collapsed over an unconscious Fowler.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. Then, louder: “Holy shit! We did it! Piers, they’re down! Get out here and help me.”
He was out already, drawn from his cabin by the ruckus, gaping past her shoulder at the unmoving bodies between the lounge tables. “Holy shit, all right. It worked. Go, team!” He clasped her shoulder and jiggled it in celebration.
Ana took a hard step forward, breaking his grip. “Before we give each other best buddy hugs, let’s finish this.”
“Right,” he said. “Right.” He brushed by her and climbed up over the table on the left before continuing toward the front of the yacht.
“Where you going?” Ana said.
“Helm,” he called back without breaking stride. “Gotta stop this thing, then turn it around.”
“Great,” she said when he’d vanished. She stepped up to the two unconscious men. “Leave me with all the hard work.” Stooping, with her PR19 muzzle pressed awkwardly to Fowler’s scalp, she checked both men’s pulses. Alive. She tapped them with the rifle. No response.
And no time to waste.
Laying her rifle back on the galley counter, she returned and got hold of Umby’s vest, sucked in a lungful of air and heaved. He shifted. A little. His head came forward and struck the floor; his arms flopped off Fowler’s body.
“My God, he’s heavy as a bull!”
She heaved again and got him half off Fowler this time. In this fashion—take a breath, haul hard, rest a second—she got the big man moving aft, her destination the emergency airlock tube at the far end of the passage. Piers hadn’t liked that part when she’d told him, the final fate she’d decided for her colleague and her commander. But Ana didn’t give a tree-rat’s baby what Piers liked or didn’t; this was her call. Fowler sure hadn’t intended for Piers to live longer than the flight to Hipparcos system—and the goddamn bastard had possibly murdered a starship full of innocent people. Dragging Umbrano a half-meter at a time, she thought of Chipper and of Wepps.
Sorry I can’t be as noble as you guys. Sorry I can’t be as clean.
But this ain’t no time to flight clean.
At the airlock, she caught her breath, cycling the full-length hatch open. It revealed a tube running from the top of the ship to the bottom. Cold air curled out of it. She poked her head inside: a hatch below, the egress point for passengers abandoning ship in a hurry. There was no gravity in there; that and the cold made it feel like she’d stuck her head back in that crawl space under Assured’s hangar.
“Why’s there have to be gravity out here?” she complained as she got round the other side of Umbrano and pushed him into the lock. Once his top half was inside, she had to fold him over at the stomach, then fold his legs at the knees and hips, then shove him down toward the bottom hatch. She stayed crouching there, watching him flop around in slow motion, sweat beading her forehead and soaking her shirt.
“God Almighty,” she sighed, trying to slow her breathing. “This is not a job for one person.”
The pilot hadn’t returned yet. Ana hadn’t expected him to. Turning this ship around was a pretty damn important job too, she had to admit. She rose to her feet, still staring down into the airlock tube.
“Christ, what a mess,” she whispered. Her squad had betrayed the Confeds, had maybe destroyed their capital ship, had created a diplomatic crap storm with the Tluaanto. When this got back to the DCHC, it would start a war with the Sevens Party. What the hell were her chances of transfer to a Peacekeeper unit now? Or even of asylum? More likely she’d face prison.
Don’t think about that, she chided herself. Don’t think about you. The human race has bigger problems than you right now.
She turned herself around and trudged back past the cabin and washroom doors with her head hanging as low as her spirits. When she raised her eyes, she discovered that Fowler wasn’t where she’d left him.
Fowler stood down beside the yacht’s main hatch in the passage to the cockpit.
A step or two in front of him—facing Ana—stood Piers, his hands clasped over his stomach, his fingers wringing each other. His face had drained of blood.
Fowler had one of the PR19s.
And he was holding the muzzle to the back of Piers’s head.
The new room lay at the end of another extensive passageway. Halfway along the corridor, Gregory had begun wondering why Qesh built such long corridors. There certainly weren’t many rooms in this complex. Had they hidden compartments and chambers behind secret entrances, perhaps? Or did Qesh just like digging? The room was half the size of the vault where they’d left the others. No other doors led from it. A dead end. But it contained the two features mentioned by Westermann. A large wall plaque to the right of the door. And a long black box against the far end.
Pan slid another flat lantern from the pack he’d brought in, powered it on, and carried it across to the box. The object sat flat on the floor. It was waist height, a l
ittle more than two meters in length so that even Chipper or Vazak might have comfortably lain down inside it. Through a thin film of dust, lantern light reflected from its glossy surface. And it appeared to have no features of any kind. It was simply a box, a container perhaps.
Gregory went to the wall plaque first, unlocking and removing his suit’s right glove to run his palm across the cool metal, wiping away dust. It wasn’t a lot of dust for a room that might be decades old, or even centuries. Did Qesh clean in here? he wondered. Someone had secured the plaque to the stonework by means of a broad-headed bolt at each corner. He tapped a finger against the head of one of these bolts. A little rust flaked off and drifted down.
“This is like something we’d use, these bolts. And this engraving.” He squinted at the sign’s script in the lantern’s diffused light. The next moment, someone’s flashlight beam played across it, illuminating clusters of tiny runes and scrawls. “We’d do this too.”
“That looks like Tluaan writing,” the flashlight owner said from beside him.
Sintopas.
Gregory flinched away from the man. Did he have to stand so close?
Sintopas shuffled closer to the plaque and held his tablet against it with his other hand. The tablet displayed the kind of Tluaan writing Gregory had tried studying during his first few days in Chaatu system.
“Look,” the comms officer said. He tapped the corner of the tab against one of the runes. “This glyph is a little flatter, but we see it over and over in Domain Space text. It makes the tl sound. This one resembles the character for iu. And this is exactly the same as their one for s. I don’t know what this one is, but I’ve seen it somewhere.”
“Ensign,” Pan said harshly. “Come help Esana scan this casing.”
Sintopas swallowed, lowered his tab and flashlight, but stayed put. “Sir … I know you all hate me. But I think this is important. The correlation—”
“You think Tluaanto survivors came in here and stuck that on the wall after their shuttle was shot down? Most of the writing doesn’t look like their script, does it? You keep staring at it long enough and you’ll see similarities to Mandarin or Arabic. If you want me to think you’re useful to us, get over here and examine this damn box.”
Sintopas hung his head and did as ordered. Gregory traipsed after him and watched the two specialists kneel and scan the box before running hands around it.
“Well?” said Pan. “What is it?”
“No idea, but it’s powered,” said Esana. Still kneeling, she raised her face to him and showed him something on her scanner. “I’m detecting a nuclear battery.”
“Nuclear? That’s a long-term power source. Radiation levels are okay?”
She nodded and returned her attention to her instrument.
“Maybe it’s a fridge,” Grace said with a wry grunt.
“Not a fridge,” Gregory said, as the elements in the room came together for him. The plaque with what might be explanatory writing on it. The long stone passages dug into a mountainside with mostly empty rooms. “It’s a sarcophagus.”
Pan shot him a quizzical look.
“Captain, did you ever read any Earth history in school?”
“Bits of it. Like most people.”
“Do you remember what pre-Information Age archeologists found when they broke into ancient world temples? They regularly found sarcophagi—elaborate coffins—with well-preserved bodies inside. Usually ‘important people.’ Kings, queens, that kind of thing.”
“You think there’s a body in there?”
“Or bodies. Otherwise, it could be handiwork, artwork, tools, implements, religious objects. The archeologists found those too.”
“I can’t see the Qesh creating a whole network of stone chambers just to put one coffin right down in the back of it. A coffin with a nuclear battery inserted.”
“Ancient humans did it all the time. Not the nuclear battery part. But, the rest, sure.”
“Well, I hope you’re not suggesting we open it. It might also contain genetic experiments … or ancient virus samples. We have enough trouble as it is without releasing either of those.”
“Uh, sir,” Esana said, scrambling to her feet and backing away. “We might not have a choice.”
A seam was appearing along the side, opening around the box and fifteen centimeters down from the top. Low purplish light leaked through. They all scuttled backwards. Pan drew his gun. The seam had opened from a central point, slicing its way outward in both directions, working its way around the corners as if invisible hands were unzipping a lid into existence.
Pan asked for readings.
Esana checked her device. “N-nothing new. Power and radiation levels are unchanged.”
“Get your weapon out, Ambassador,” said Pan. Grace had hers out already.
Gregory fumbled at the pouch where he’d stored Sintopas’s weapon and almost dropped it, held onto it with a trembling hand, lowered it to his side. This was definitely frightening, but whatever was in there would have to attack before he would shoot it.
Please let it be potsherds and clay idols.
A moment later, the newly formed lid spasmed and hissed with released pressure. It jerked upward a few centimeters, releasing more violet light from within along with curls of vapor.
“Instrument check, Esana,” Pan ordered.
“Nothing toxic, sir. Just … cold air.”
With a wild judder that made them yelp and flinch, the lid flung itself all the way open on twin hinges, banging against the wall behind it. When they caught a glimpse of the contents, they gasped.
“Holy hell,” Pan breathed.
“It is a coffin,” said Esana.
“Or some kind of stasis device,” said Gregory. That was no more pleasant a prospect—the idea that the person within was somehow alive …
Undead?
He forced himself to be the first to approach it with the others crowding at his shoulders. Every one of them gasped again.
The inside of the casket was lined with a thick mesh material. A humanoid figure lay there, bathed in purple light. It wore dark coveralls made from the same mesh, festooned with opaque tubing. Its hands, feet, and head were bare. Its hands had the same arrangement of digits as a human hand, though each was a little shorter. The person’s face and throat were lightly furred. The head was turned away from them, revealing a stumpy head crest at the back.
The body in the casket was Tluaan.
“I knew it,” whispered Sintopas with a glance toward the wall plaque.
25
Buoun’s group crested the slope onto the wide volcano rim with sighs of relief. They paused to catch their breath—all except Bradstock who scouted ahead through thick layers of low-lying bushes. The Human warrior seemed as indefatigable as Tluaan warriors.
Buoun plucked the second of his flasks from his belt and swallowed the remainder of his water. It tasted like sweat and dirty cloth. Which made complete sense since he had wrung this from his sopping wet clothes as he’d climbed the caldera. He hoped the Humans would restock his supplies quickly. He was very thirsty. The sun had long since passed its zenith but the air had grown still and humid in the aftermath of the rain, the post-storm sky hidden behind a white film that seemed to hold the stuffy air in place. The water he’d just swallowed did little to slake his thirst.
Bradstock reappeared a few hundred heartbeats later, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Three minutes that way and we can climb down the inside. No animals, but …” He rubbed at his nose. Then sneezed. “Some kinda crap in the air round here.” He sneezed again.
“Well, someone should have heeded the navy’s orders about helmets, then,” said Moore and fitted hers back on. Evans copied her. Gladky swore and followed Bradstock into the scrub.
Buoun followed in the females’ wake, pushing through stiff and scratchy branches. They reached the edge of the rim well before him. There was something in the air, noticeable as he came in sight of the inner edge of the canyon. It
scratched at his nostrils but didn’t feel as bad as Bradstock had made out. The Peacekeeper had already unpacked a roll of bandages and was now wrapping them around the lower half of his head, forming a mask.
So, Buoun thought with an embarrassing degree of smugness. Tluaanto may dehydrate quicker than you, but we’re less affected by airborne particles.
“I see the pod!” Evans exclaimed through her suit’s exterior speakers, pointing and jigging on the balls of her feet.
“Yeah, yeah,” sighed Bradstock, his masking muffling his voice. “We all see the pod.” He applied some kind of pin to the end of his bandage roll, fixing the mask in place.
Evans didn’t seem to hear him—perhaps she’d turned off her suit’s external microphone. She sat down on her bottom and slid over the rim and out of sight. Bradstock did the same. Only Moore waited for Buoun, giving him a thumbs-up as he reached her. Humans truly liked their thumbs-up gesture.
“See?” she said. “We’re safe.”
He followed her gaze. Down in the center of the crater was a dirty brown lake. The white shapes of flying creatures salted its surface. A life-pod had beached itself on this side.
“I hope so,” he replied and watched the way she lowered herself down to the first shelf on the inner slope of the crater. He mimicked her, but clumsily, sliding in to a hard landing on the ledge.
It was Bradstock’s turn to point, across and down. “Structure entrance. Rendezvous point.”
“Hopefully they’re all in there,” said Evans. “I don’t want to climb all the way down to the lake if I don’t have to.”
“No one does,” Bradstock told her shortly. He touched the comms control in his sleeve. “We’re here. Just crossed over the rim.”
One voice answered immediately, a female voice Buoun recognized from Assured’s bridge. “Lindberg here. Good to hear your voice. The captain’s party is within the temple, if that’s what it is, but I’m not sure your comms will reach them.”
“They did,” came Pan’s voice, though the signal was scratchy. “I was just on my way out to see where you were, Corporal. Envoy Buoun is well?”
Assured (Envoys Book 2) Page 29