by Tanya Huff
“We don’t need your gods. We have plenty.”
“Play nice, children.” Torin hauled Darlys upright in turn and leaned her toward Kichar. “Durlave? Problem.”
Freenim was still on the ground, crouched over Merinim who was panting and holding her face. No, not her face . . .
“Filter snagged when she went down,” Freenim said without looking up. “I patch with ours, but it is not holding in the heat.”
“Here.” Torin pulled one of their slap-on filters from her vest and passed it down. “Try this; it’s a little bigger because of the Krai’s nose ridges.”
He gazed at the filter for a moment, lying limp over his palm, then up at Torin. “Yesterday, we were enemies.”
She shrugged. “And we may be tomorrow. Today, we’ve jumped out of the same frying pan.”
“Gunny, yesterday . . .”
“It’s a metaphor, Kichar. Just something we say to remind ourselves that there’s a war on.”
The young Marine rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. “I thought you’d forgotten.”
The look she exchanged with Freenim spoke of what they’d both seen over the years. “Not likely.”
“But . . .”
“There’s a war on, Kichar, but we’re not fighting it today.”
Merinim gingerly turned her head from side to side, hand up and ready to pinch the tear closed again.“Holding better, but I would not trust it to sudden moves.”
“So we’ll move a bit slower.” Torin took a swallow of water, sweat dribbling down her side under the vest as she raised her arm and pushed a fold of the filter into her mouth. “It’s not . . .
The second crack wasn’t quite as loud, but something told Torin that was only because it came from farther away. The echoes bouncing off both higher ridges and the low cloud cover suggested it had been one hell of a noise.
“Gunny . . .”
Torin really didn’t like the sound in Mashona’s voice.
“. . . I think that was the prison.”
“Cracking?”
“There’s a black line. There.” Eyes squinted nearly closed, Mashona pointed back the way they’d come. “Near the corner. It wasn’t there before.”
Even mimicking Mashona’s squint, Torin could barely see the prison let alone a crack. “I’ll have to take your . . . Mashona. Look at the sky left of the prison and a bit beyond. What do you see?”
“The light against the clouds is yellow instead of orange.”
“The light against the bottom of the clouds. Durlave!” Torin whirled in place. Merinim was up on her feet now, one hand against the patch on the filter. “We haven’t time to go careful. Get a filter over her mouth and nose! Another over her closed eyes! You and Everim keep her on her feet, she’ll be running blind!”
“That is unnecess . . .”
“There’s a firestorm coming!”
Merinim took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and ripped open the damaged filter. Freenim quickly slapped the others on.
“To stick in this heat,” he began.
“We won’t be out here long,” Torin snapped, grabbing Darlys’ arm. “Let’s move people! Spend everything you’ve got!”
Taking small careful steps across the skimmer pad—walking hurt but standing hurt more as the paving brought up new blisters—Kyster made a wide circle around Helic’tin’s back end until he could look up into the Polina’s face. Or, given the angle, up into the Polina’s nose. His head was back, the wide nostrils were flared, and he was staring along the skimmer path through narrowed eyes.
Curious about just what Helic’tin could smell through the filter— because the only serley thing Kyster could smell was his own feet cooking—he took up a position of his own at the edge of the pad and opened his nose ridges. He slammed them closed after a couple of seconds when it felt like his brain had been dehydrated and turned into jerky.
A big hand closed roughly around his shoulder, the two fingers on one side, the two thumbs on the other, and pulled his attention off the packs of jerky he used to be able to buy on MidSector Station.
“What?”
Helic’tin growled something and lifted his other arm to point.
“I can’t smell it!”
The second growl needed no translation. He jabbed at the air with one clawed finger.
The skimmer path. Rock. Fissures. Heat shimmer. Orange clouds. Yellow clouds . . . Yellow clouds? Maybe it was what passed on this shithole of a planet for dawn although Kyster wouldn’t actually say there’d been a night. It had never actually gotten dark and . . .
The yellow pattern shifted. For a minute, it looked as though the clouds were on fire.
Fire.
“Firestorm!”
Werst met him halfway back to the door. “What are you talking about, kid?”
Mouth open, unable to suck in enough air, he gasped the word again. “Firestorm!”
They turned together to stare at the wall. At the scorch marks well over their heads.
“Fuk! Ressk!” Werst whirled and raced back to the panel. “Get the damned door open!”
“Working on it!”
“Yeah, well, work faster! If I’m going to be roasted, I want to be eaten after!”
Still standing at the edge of the platform, Helic’tin made a noise that spun Kyster back around. The nearest ridge had gained what looked like a fringed edge. And the fringe was moving.
“I see them! The others!”
“Where?”
It took Kyster a minute to realize why Werst was staring up into the sky. “Not those others, our others! There! On the path! Hey!” He waved both hands above his head. “Over here! Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!”
Sucking air through her teeth, amazed that it could actually be hotter than it was, Torin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She’d stopped sweating, and that was bad, knew she was dehydrating but couldn’t let Darlys go long enough to grab her canteen. The di’Taykan was still moving her feet, but Torin and Kichar were holding most of her weight.
At that, she was doing better than Watura whose feet were dragging, boots scraping against the rock in a rhythm that suggested he was still trying, still conscious, but only just.
She could hear Freenim calling cadence as Merinim ran full out with her hand locked in the back of his uniform. That was trust. The Druin were out in front now, the distance widening enough that space between Freenim’s voice and the slate and her implant were becoming a distraction.
Stop thinking, Torin. Run!
“Ressk!”
He slapped Werst’s hand away. “Stop fukking distracting me!”
With all three Krai grouped around the panel, Kyster’s head pivoted between the path and the door. He could hear the roar of the approaching firestorm. Tried to convince himself he could hear the pounding of boots on gravel. Couldn’t even though they were close enough now he could make out separate people. Or separate clumps of people.
“Ressk! If that door isn’t open when they get here . . .”
“We’ll all roast together!” Ressk’s snarl cut Werst off although he kept his eyes locked on the panel. “I know! Shut up!”
Helic’tin twisted to look back over his shoulder and yelled something. The durlin yelled back, and Kyster didn’t need to understand the language to know she’d told him that whatever he’d said first was a dumbass idea.
Then the durlin yelled again as Helic’tin spun around one rear foot, charged across the skimmer pad and shoved Ressk and Werst aside, rearing back . . .
He was going to slash the panel.
Kyster could see it as clearly as if it was happening in front of him.
He was going to slash the panel and destroy it and the door would never be opened and they’d all die. The gunny would die.
What would the gunny do?
He threw himself in under the raised forelegs, and punched the Polinta as hard as he could in the balls.
Helic’tin screamed and twisted back on himself.
The blow landed just under Kyster’s shoulder, lifted him up and flung him high enough in the air that he had time to twist and see the ground approaching before impact.
The door wasn’t open.
And Torin could feel the heat behind them raising blisters on the backs of her bare legs. “Mike, go!”
“I’ve got him, Sarge!” Watura dipped sideways as Mashona took his weight and, relieved of the burden, Mike began to pull ahead, arms pumping, boots digging.
Darlys was still more or less on her feet, but Watura was going to collapse and take Mashona down in another minute.
“Take him, Gunny,” Kichar gasped. “I can . . . hold her . . . until Mash . . . until she gets here.”
Moving up alongside, Torin got a good two handfuls of Watura’s combats—actually, Mashona’s combats—and yelled, “Mashona, switch!”
As he fell toward her, she ducked forward and lifted him up across her shoulders wondering when the gravity had gotten stronger. “Fukker’s gained weight!”
Mike was almost at the door. They still had a chance.
Kyster struggled to sit as he heard boots pounding across the skimmer pad. Arms flailing, his hand hit something solid, and he used it to pull himself up, realizing too late it he’d been lying tucked between the durlin’s front legs and was holding a handful of damp fur. Then Technical Sergeant Gucciard raced past, stumbling to a panting halt next to the control box.
“Sarge! It won’t make the connections!”
“Won’t?” The sergeant gasped.
“Won’t,” Ressk insisted, “there’s something missing!”
Bracing himself with one hand flat against the wall, the sergeant stared into the panel. “Oh, that’s not good!”
“We are almost with no time!” the durlin yelled.
The slate! Technical Sergeant Gucciard had the slate on his vest, Kyster realized as more boots pounded across the platform and the four Druin arrived. Kyster turned to see Mashona and Kichar carrying Darlys, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr with Watura over her shoulders right behind, and behind her . . .
“Sergeant! The firestorm!” Kyster thought that was Sanati.
He didn’t believe it could get hotter, but it had. If the sergeant didn’t get the door open, they were all going to die.
It was light, really light suddenly, and Kyster saw the sergeant straighten, close his eyes for a second, then reach into the panel.
The door opened.
Torin saw the door open as she hit the edge of the platform, Watura a dead weight across her shoulders. No, a limp weight. Not dead. Not so close.
Durlin Vertic grabbed Kyster by the collar and hauled him through the door, keeping her body between him and the firestorm.
When she got a moment, Torin really had to ask about the whole ride/ridden relationship
Freenim thrust Merinim inside, then he and Everim each grabbed an end of an Artek and tossed them in. Sanati and Ressk grabbed another.
Werst flipped the last onto its back and dragged it.
As soon as the Krai were in, Helic’tin and Bertecnic charged over the threshold.
Mashona, Darlys, and Kichar were at the door.
Then she was at the building.
On the threshold.
Turned.
Mike’s teeth were clamped so tightly together a muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes were open. He had his far hand braced against the building, most of his weight on it in spite of the angry, painful looking red the skin had turned, blisters erupting in the heat of the firestorm. The hand thrust into the control box was a twisted mess of bone and char.
“Mike!”
He lifted his head. Sucked a breath in through his teeth. Focused on her face and straightened, lifting his hand off the wall, snapping the slate off his vest. He nodded, once. Tossed the slate at her, then threw his body to the side, forcing his arm around, turning the ruin of his hand.
Torin threw herself backward, Watura’s heels knocked hard against her thighs by the closing door, the slate bouncing off his ass and clattering against the floor. On her knees, she could hear people breathing all around her. Rough rasps of air sucked through dry mouths and throats. Damaged, but alive.
Watura rolled off her shoulders, grunted when he hit the floor and, with that question answered, she crawled forward. Hands and knees. Not enough left to manage on knees alone.
Even through the filter she had no energy to remove, the inside of the door was cool against her cheek.
She couldn’t hear Mike burn, not through the door.
Except . . . she could.
THIRTEEN
WHEN RESSK CRAWLED INTO HER LINE of sight and pulled himself up onto his feet by the control panel, frantically pawing at the cover, Torin roused herself enough to lightly touch his shoulder.
“He’s dead, Ressk.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do.” The filter hadn’t moderated that final blast of heat and her lower lip, baked dry, split as she forced it to form words. “The firestorm hit as the door closed.” She nodded at the line of char that marked the edge of the opening. “Concentrate on getting the inner door open.”
“But . . .”
“He’s dead,” she said again, tasting blood. “Technical Sergeant Gucciard gave his life to save ours. He knew he was dead the moment he closed that connection.” She’d seen that knowledge in his eyes; he’d chosen the manner of his death, sold his life for the highest price possible.
It was the kind of sacrifice Marines got medals for.
Posthumously.
“I should have gotten the door open!”
“Sarge said a piece was missing.” Werst.
Torin turned and slid down the door until she was sitting, back against the barrier Mike had used to save them, broken blisters on her knees weeping fluid. “He said there was a piece missing in the controls?”
“Yeah.”
Werst was on his feet, and Torin realized that he and Ressk were probably in the best shape of all of them. They’d gotten a ride from the prison. Kyster . . . Kyster was tucked in the cradle of Durlin Vertic’s front legs but she’d deal with that in a minute.
“He looked into the panel,” Werst continued. “Said there was a piece missing. When time ran out, he shoved his hand in.”
“Sounds like you couldn’t have gotten the door open, Ressk.”
Behind the shimmer of the filter, his nose ridges were opening and closing so quickly they seemed to be fluttering. “It could have been my hand!”
“And then we’d be mourning you.” She met Werst’s gaze and knew they were both remembering another time, another life given. “Sucks to be the ones moving on without him, but he gave us that chance and we’re not going to waste it. Go get the inner door open.”
“But, Gunny . . .”
“That’s an order, Corporal.” She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed, heard him move across the air lock as she sucked air through her teeth and dropped back onto her knees so she could reach Watura and flip him over onto his back. “Werst, I need a reading on the air quality.”
He snorted, finally noticing her lack of uniform, glanced down at Watura and Darlys, and then down at his sleeve. Frowned. Slapped the fabric a time or two. “Uh, mine never worked, Gunny.”
Right. She knew that. “Kichar?”
“I’m sorry, Gunny. It’s fried.”
“Wonderful. All right . . .” Watura’s pulse was thready, but his heart was beating and his lungs were filling and he was alive. The rest would have to wait. It was only cool in the air lock in comparison, but it was enough to bring the di’Taykan some relief. “. . . help me get my uniform off him. His sleeve had protection for roughly half the distance, it might still work. Durlave, if you and Everim could strip Mashona’s combats off Darlys.”
“I’ve got it, Gunny.” Mashona sat up and gasped. The blisters were less evident on her much darker skin but they were just as present.
“Let me.” Freenim touched her lightly on the shou
lder as he knelt by Darlys, Everim moving around to pull off her boots. Merinim sat slumped against one of the side walls blinking rapidly, the filter off her eyes but still covering her mouth and nose.
As Torin slid Watura’s arm out of his vest, Kichar reached for the fasteners of his combats. “I’ve got it, Gunny.”
Torin let her have it. Bracing one hand against the inside of the door, she stood and walked in a more-or-less straight line across to Durlin Vertic. Besides the damage to exposed skin, her back felt twisted, the ache radiating down into her right cheek, and it hurt to breathe deeply. “Sir. You’re injured.”
“Burned. Painful, but I will live.”
“And Private Kyster?”
Her hand stroked Kyster’s shoulder; it looked like she was petting him. “He stopped Helec’tin from destroying the control panel.”
Helec’tin’s claws scraped the floor as he shifted his weight, but Torin couldn’t read his expression at all. She settled for demanding, “Why the hell would you want to do that?”
“I thought it would open.”
“He did not think at all, he reacted,” the durlin snapped. “It is a problem with our males! I should have been watching more closely!”
If Vertic wanted to take the blame, Torin wasn’t going to stop her. She hissed out a breath as she dropped to one knee by Kyster’s side and gently turned his head so she could get a better look at the bruising coming up on one side of his face. “You stopped Helec’tin? How?”
“He reared and I punched him in the balls.” Before Torin could ask why, he added, “It was what you would have done.”
Given their respective heights, probably not, but it was a sweet thought. His eye was likely to swell closed and from even a cursory examination of the damage, had he not had the Krai’s nearly unbreakable bones, impact would have smashed his skull like a melon. “What can’t I see?”
“He cannot lift his right arm.”
His nose ridges flared. “I can!”
The durlin snorted. “It causes him pain to lift his right arm,” she amended dryly. “See to your own injuries, Gunnery Sergeant. I will watch him.”
“I’m not . . .” Actually, she was. “Yes, sir.” As she started to straighten, Bertecnic was there, bending at the waist, a hand shoved under her arm. She didn’t even begin a second protest, just let him help her up. Mashona was already standing and in spite of exhaustion, Torin didn’t blame her—it was the only position where the blisters touched nothing.