Hadeishi moved his head aside. "There are crewmen who need your assistance, isha. My condition is sufficient for duty. I am needed on the bridge before more of my men are injured or killed."
The gui-ni regarded him levelly for a moment. "Both medical bays are full. I've men in trauma bags hanging in the hallway like cuts of meat and there are whole compartments from bulkhead sixteen back the damage control teams haven't managed to cut into yet. I need this medical bed, but you're the captain and that means you get priority treatment -"
"I disagree." Hadeishi pointed his chin at the restraints across his chest. "Release me and you'll have the bed back."
"Your condition -"
"Isha, I'm giving you an order," Hadeishi said, forcing his tongue to move. "I'll sit very still once I'm on the bridge."
The Mixtec grunted noncommittally. His face was dotted with tiny green flecks of drying woundgel. "Fleet executive authority does not extend to the medical branch, save in an advisory role, Chu-sa. You can't order me to do anything."
Hadeishi suppressed a ghoulish laugh. "Nor can you restrict my authority, save by rendering me unconscious. This argument is pointless – here, I do nothing but take up space and your time. On the bridge, I can improve matters for all of us."
"Perhaps." The Mixtec sighed and made a hand motion indicating the acceptance of fate.
The gui-ni called for one of his corpsmen and keyed the bed to detach itself from the captain. "The primary bridge is either destroyed or unreachable," the Mixtec said conversationally. "Hayes and Jaguar were processed through here about six hours ago. Command and control has shifted to the secondary. I believe Smith-tzin is now acting duty officer."
A corpsman kicked over and took hold of the railing on the edge of the bed. "Kyo?"
"The Chu-sa needs to get to secondary control. Make sure he doesn't overexert himself while you're moving him." The doctor nodded to Hadeishi. "This man will take you there."
The Chu-sa nodded, still very weak and was happy to lie still, head back, while they detached the various tubes and sensors connecting him to the medical bed. He tried to muster the strength to ask if senior lieutenant Patrick Hayes and ensign Three-Jaguar had been 'processed' alive, dead, or crippled, but failed. The effort of holding back tears, of showing the dignity proper to a Fleet officer, was enough to exhaust the tiny store of energy left to him.
So many ghosts cling to your soul, the air whispered. Like the ship herself, only a tattered hull, filled with indistinct voices. Do you hear them calling your name?
Hadeishi curled his arm around the corpsman's shoulders and let himself be removed from the bed.
Near the Train Station The Streets of Parus
Mrs. Petrel limped to a halt, biting back an exhausted wheeze. Her thigh and hip stabbed with pain every time her foot came down on the broken concrete sidewalk. The three Imperials had come to the edge of a traffic circle where one of the grand avenues cutting through the tightly packed buildings intersected a spray of lesser streets. A jumbled pile of broken runner-carts had been pushed from the main road, making an impromptu barrier between a series of shops and one of the ancient trees lining the boulevard. There was broken glass and scattered dribs and drabs of cloth, plastic toys and sheets of charred pypil everywhere. Two of the shops were gutted, black holes in the face of the building.
"Ah now," Colmuir said quietly, coming up to her shoulder. "We've surely come the wrong way…"
The traffic circle ahead was crammed with vehicles – imported Imperial trucks; the flat, angular shapes of Jehanan troop carriers; even the hulking shape of an Aganu medium tank – and there were literally hundreds of native troops milling about. The rumbling engines filled the air with the stink of methanol and diesel. Most of the soldiers were squatting on the sidewalks, tails wrapped around their long feet, passing bottles and bhang-pipes from claw to claw. One of the troop carriers had its rear compartment open and four Jehanan mechanics were banging around in the engine, cursing and muttering at ancient machinery. Two short-horns pushed a cart past the soldiers, offering grilled spiced zizunaga on wooden tines. The clang of their advertising bell was nearly lost in the general murmur. None of the soldiers seemed interested.
"Do you see the building on the right?" Mrs. Petrel gasped, leaning her hands on her thighs. Oh my god, I hurt inside. I think I've ruptured something. "It's a hotel – a very expensive Jehanan hotel – where the kurbardar Humara makes his residence when he is in the city. There is a suite of rooms on the third floor…" She paused, coughed, hand over her mouth, listening with growing irritation to the smooth, self-satisfied voice chattering in her ear. "…which my husband and I once visited for a dinner party. The – uhhh! – commando who took the prince was wearing a regimental insignia from an elite battalion under Humara's command."
Colmuir grunted, looked askance at Dawd, who shrugged, just as worried as he. "So you think they've taken the lad in there? T' drag before the general and gain their honor for a braw captive?"
Mrs. Petrel nodded weakly and forced herself to stand up straight. The tree afforded her some support and her hands pressed against the crinkly bark with relief. "Humara will be ecstatic to have the prince in his claws. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't make the boy call on the Imperial troops on the planet to surrender."
"Ha!" Dawd smiled in grim amusement. "I'm sure Tlacateccatl Yacatolli will immediately send forth a noble envoy to the sound of drums, trumpets and whistles when he hears the news! He will have some choice words to say about such a turn of events… Doesn't Humara know the Mйxica don't believe in surrender, or in ransoming captives? The colonel is more likely to demand the boy be sacrificed, as was done in the old days!"
Colmuir nodded in agreement. "But we can't let the lad languish. He's our responsibility and he's no legal captive until the battle's doon." He pointed with the muzzle of his Macana. "There'd be a service way in from the back?"
Petrel peered at the front of the hotel, noting the garish, gilt-embossed balconies were now draped with blankets and reinforced by rows of sand-bags. Machine-gun barrels snouted from the lower windows. The main doors were wedged back, allowing entrance into the building, but again there was a redoubt of sand-bags draped with camouflage netting in the entryway. The carpets in those dining rooms will be ruined, she imagined. Very pretty they were.
Voices were whispering to her again, and Greta turned slightly to keep her earbug away from Dawd, who was staring at her in a puzzled way.
"There is a delivery entrance in the rear," she said, as if remembering. "But not directly behind the front doors of the hotel – it's offset behind that dun-colored building. There are – there will be – guards, but not so many as in front."
"Right," the master sergeant said, eyeing her with suspicion. He produced a slim little comp from a thigh pocket. The device made a creaky sound, but lit at his finger-press. Colmuir tabbed up a map of the city and popped through several views before finding the street intersection. Once he'd oriented himself, the Skawtsman peered around the corner and checked out the adjoining streets. Wisps of hazy smoke drifted among the buildings. To the right, a shop selling imported Imperial toys was still burning, spilling a cloud of dark gray ash out into the avenue. The sun had mounted past noon, but in the thick, polluted air down in the city, with the air reverberating with the distant bang and crash of explosions, the hour felt very late.
"Back a block," Colmuir announced, "and over one and we can get into that service access."
Dawd nodded, offering Mrs. Petrel a hand and then they crept back away from the barricade. As they moved, two of the spyeyes drifting above the woman darted off ahead, letting Lachlan's controllers spy their path for unseen foes.
A wide loading dock stood at the back of a particularly rundown-looking building. Three Jehanan soldiers with modern rifles slung forward at their hips stood in the shelter of an overhanging awning made of wooden slats. Coils of yellowish smoke drifted above their heads as they passed a bhang from claw to claw.<
br />
"That's the place…" Colmuir waited for the reptilian heads to turn and then signed for Dawd to leap-frog past him to a square-linteled doorway on the opposite side of the of the tiny lane. The younger Skawtsman dodged past, taking a long step over a pair of water-filled ruts worn into the cobblestones by the passage of generations of runner-carts. The master sergeant watched for any sign of alarm until Dawd was ensconced in the shadows of the doorway, automatic pistols in either hand.
"Now miss," Colmuir said, giving Petrel a worried look, "you're in no shape t' be invading the stronghold of the enemy today. You'd best stay in hiding out here somewhere. Do y' know -"
"I do." Mrs. Petrel nodded. Her face looked notably pinched and she stood only by dint of leaning into a sooty brick wall. She motioned back down the alley. "Just off that last turn is a very nice little bed and breakfast on the Court of Yellow Flagstones. The owners are friendly towards humans." She laughed bitterly. "If their avant-garde politics have not gotten them murdered, I will be safe there."
The elder Skawtsman nodded slowly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Well, then. We'll be about rescuing the prince – again! – from the heathens." He paused, watching her right leg, which was trembling under her tattered, dirty festival skirts. "But we could go with you…"
"I will be fine, Master Sergeant." Mrs. Petrel drew herself up and wiped her hands on the bottom of her mantle. "The hotel has a small sign – three Nem flowers in a triangle. I will wait for you there." She essayed a brave smile. The Eagle Knight nodded, dubious about abandoning her on the streets of the war-torn city and equally anxious to burst in amongst his enemies and recover the person of his lord from captivity. "Go on now, time may be wasting…"
"Aye," he said, unmoving, "it might. But we should -"
"Go on," Mrs. Petrel waved an imperious hand at him, starting to feel rather faint from standing unsupported. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode off down the alleyway. Colmuir cursed, started to follow and then heard Dawd whistle softly behind him.
Turning, the master sergeant saw the other Eagle Knight sign the way is clear.
Hooting among themselves, the guards had finished their smoke and gone back inside.
"Ah, that tears it," he mumbled to himself and checked the ammunition level on his assault rifle. Colmuir signed for Dawd to advance and then ducked around the corner himself.
Finally!
Petrel watched the two Eagle Knights glide up to the loading dock, weapons at the ready, and breathed a sigh of relief. She tapped her medband awake again and sighed with relief at the cool touch of painkillers flooding into her system. Her injured leg was throbbing with each beat of her heart.
"I'm clear," she muttered, checking to make sure her earbug was firmly planted. The replacement unit didn't have the same fit and finish as her usual one. "Where to now?"
Excellent. The chittering voice of the old N'huatl woman sounded like a cricket had crawled into her hair. Back to the main street, but right instead of left. You'll meet an old friend within fifteen minutes – he's bringing your poetess – and some others of use…
"Bhazuradeha is here?" Petrel frowned, limping quickly along the alley. She found the emptiness of the streets unsettling – Parus was so densely populated even these back lanes were usually the scene of constant traffic and commerce – and her shoulders twitched with the sensation of being watched by hundreds of hostile eyes. "I thought you didn't approve of her!"
I've thought upon the matter, Itzpalicue said in a very smug voice. She could be of great use to us, if properly handled.
Petrel snorted. "You think everything and everyone is of use, if properly handled. Can your little friends find me a gun? I feel naked out here without my Webley."
The old Nahuatl woman chuckled. Gehr Shahr can provide you with whatever kind of weapon you desire, as soon as you find him. He has an extensive collection to claw.
Mrs. Petrel winced, feeling a trickle of fear at the back of her throat. "Gehr Shahr is a murderous thug, a notorious villain and entirely untrustworthy. What is he doing here?"
Nonsense, Itzpalicue said, sounding self-satisfied. He is a gentleman of impeccable honor, as long as the benefits of my employment outweigh his natural inclination to steal or burn everything he sees. He and his cousins have been of great use in the last several days, so you must treat him politely…
"His cousins?" Mrs. Petrel started to feel faint despite the drugs and cleaning agents coursing through her bloodstream. "Just how many Arach slavers did you bring into the city?"
Only a few hundred, the old woman said in an offhand way, just enough for all the murdering and thieving I needed done. It is always a joy to employ craftsmen.
"Oh, Holy Mother of Tepeyac," Petrel moaned, limping out onto the street leading towards the court of Yellow Flagstones. "Hundreds of Arachosians are loose in the city? They'll – oh, hello!"
Greta stumbled to a halt, astonished to find herself face to face with the looming black shape of the Hesht female she'd glimpsed at the train station. A pasty-faced human lolled on her shoulder, grimy hands clutching the furred neck of the alien woman. Seeing them again nudged a memory loose and suddenly she realized the two refugees were, by a quirk of fate, her direct responsibility. Oh damn.
"Hrrr!" Magdalena growled in warning, long hands swinging up a length of saw-edged lohaja.
"Peace!" Mrs. Petrel exclaimed, drawing back. "I've no quarrel with you, Heshak."
"I remember your smell…" the Hesht's voice trailed off into an exhausted hiss. "You were on the train." Sleek black eyebrows rose sharply and her fists tightened on the crude spear. "This stinking male needs a bone-setter and right away, or he will die. Is there a hospital or a doctor who understands the arrangement of human organs?"
"I…don't know. Not near here…" Mrs. Petrel eyed the length of razor-sharp wood with trepidation. And me without so much as a knife in my girdle! She frowned, a buzzing rising and falling in her hair. "Wait, I am searching for some friends – I'm sure they are nearby – come with me and we'll find help for your companion."
Itzpalicue cackled in her ear. Yes, I'm sure Gher Shahr will take good care of some stray civilians…
"This way," Mrs. Petrel said, hurrying past the Hesht and her deathly burden. "Not far, only a few blocks…" Under her voice, she muttered fiercely. "We're not going to dispose of these people – they're Imperial citizens and Company employees! I know their oyabun. Send me a doctor as quickly as you can."
Dawd set his back to a wall covered with posters of dainty Jehanan females hiding behind their tails and tucked one pistol under his wounded arm for safe-keeping. The hallway was rather dark, lit only by lamplight streaming from beneath a half-closed door. He groped in his thigh pockets and found, by touch, a pair of screw-on silencers. Only a few feet away, the master sergeant had already mounted a flash-suppressor on his assault rifle. Colmuir was taking the quiet moment to count his ammunition coils and remaining munitions.
"I've four grenades left," he said. "Do you want two?"
Dawd shook his head, the second silencer clicking into place. "I'll do the quiet work," he said, settling both pistols in his gloves. "And I'll lead. You've the longer reach."
Colmuir nodded. He started thumbing grenades into the launcher on his Macana. "Arm holding up?"
"It'll do." Dawd checked the set of his combat visor, tapped his earbug experimentally – he'd been getting some kind of interference out in the street – and sidled quietly up to the doorway. His breathing slowed appreciably with each step.
The three Jehanan soldiers from the loading dock had joined two of their friends around a low table. All of the slicks were kitted out in Vendanian uniforms; soft, campaign-style caps; leather harness for their ammunition, tools and personal effects; olive-colored baldrics front and back with heraldic symbols representing their brigade and lord. In comparison to the softness of the hand-made fittings, the gleaming metal HK-45B assault rifles seemed out of place.
&n
bsp; Dawd nudged the door wide with his foot and stepped back a pace. Both automatics rose, bucked sharply in his hands as he fired, making a hissing ptttht! Two of the Jehanan jerked, the sound of bullets puncturing scale sounding like a broken plate hitting a tiled floor. The other three slicks sprang to their feet. Blood dusted the far wall. Dawd shifted slightly, shot two more as they clawed for their guns and then ducked into the room, sliding to his left.
The last Jehanan has his assault rifle swinging up, an outraged hoooo! bursting from his throat, when Colmuir – his line of fire clear – shot him in the throat with the Macana. The flechette burst inside the slick's cranium, shredding muscles, spinal cord and brain alike. There was a choked, gurgling sound mixed with a whine of spinning metal and the Jehanan soldier toppled over.
Colmuir signed for Dawd to check the far door as he advanced, checking each body for signs of life. The younger Skawtsman drifted to the exit, slid a spyeye thread through the door and signed all-clear. Moving quietly, they slid out into a darkened kitchen. Colmuir's backup comp was flickering, showing an intermittent signature from the prince's skinsuit.
Five minutes later, on the third floor, Dawd darted out of the landing at the head of the servant's stairs, caught sight of two Jehanan officers in the hallway, long heads together in conversation and charged towards them. The passage was high ceilinged and filled with painted wooden panels depicting great feats of Parusian arms – most by brawny slicks wielding axes and swords of enormous size. The Skawtsman's boots raced across deep, plush carpet. A tall pair of double-doors stood closed behind the two natives.
Hissing in irritation, the taller of the two officers turned away sharply and immediately saw Dawd loping towards him, automatics raised. A wild hoooo! leapt from his scaled throat and he snatched for his own sidearm. Dawd dodged to one side and fired his lefthand Nambu twice. The other officer, still unawares, spun around, chest and face smashed by the bullets. Gargling, he fell in a cloud of blood.
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