Sliding her right hand behind her back, Vasquez warned them to stay still. Incredible as it seemed, Kris saw the corporal meant to capture the animal. Her whole being radiated a singular, focused intensity, surpassing even what Kris had witnessed during the match with Major Lewis. Still, as Vasquez began to steal down the trunk they were on, Kris could not fathom how she intended to pull this off. True, the creature was distracted by its meal and, if the lashing of the long tail was any gauge, enjoying immensely. But it was on a much thinner branch, good meter higher than they were, and at least two away horizontally, and the trunk they were on dipped up ahead, increasing the distance even more. Hopping to the ground at that point was of no conceivable use: the beast was far too high up to be reached, and in any case, a body crashing to the ground would surely spook it.
Vasquez paused at the point where the trunk began to dip, and lowered herself into a kneeling crouch. The beast, perhaps sensing the movement, withdrew itself from the depths of the blossom, and as the scaly, reptilian, nectar-dripping head turned in their direction, Vasquez sprang.
It was over in an eye-blink. Kris perceived the blur of Vasquez’s flying form, heard a strange high-pitched bark, and then the corporal and the creature were tumbling over together in the leaf litter. Vasquez rolled easily to her feet, the beast’s head pinned in one hand, the hind legs with the other and the body clasped beneath her arms. It appeared unhurt, but certainly displeased: its tail lashed furiously and it was emitting that strange barking noise in chorus now, so it sounded almost like a pack of hounds at full cry.
More astoundingly, the lean feline body which had been covered in spotted tawny fur, sprouted a layer of iridescent blue scales and these began change color in irregular blotches; rippling tones of sapphire and cerulean and brilliant azure, while the tiny cloven hoofs at the ends of the forelimbs transformed pairs of wicked claws which could have done serious damage if they got free.
They didn’t get free. Leidecker was already on the ground with a containment net and together they stuffed the beast inside, rather unceremoniously, and hung it from a low-growing branch where it barked and hissed and thrashing while Leidecker took video and samples and made measurements and Vasquez sang to it in her native tongue. Whether it was the singing or simply the rage burning off now it was longer being handled, the beast quieted down and by the time Leidecker completed his observations, the scales had disappeared, the spotted fur and the little cloven hoofs were back. Instead of thrashing and barking, it sat upright in the net, staring at them with its slit- pupiled opalescent eyes and looking merely indignant.
Lowering the net to the ground, Leidecker and Vasquez backed away, beaming once again and conversing in low tones. Kris and Hardestan reached down to give the corporal a hand up onto the trunk, then they helped Leidecker up. He sat for a moment, breathing noisily, smile undimmed, before taking out the release to the containment net and clicking it. The net fell away, the creature glanced about with a suspicious air, and deciding its ordeal was over, rose up on its hind legs and shook itself like a wet dog.
The shaking continued until the fur across the narrow shoulders and down along the spine began to quiver and bulge and Kris—who’d thought she’d seen everything with the fur-to-scales and hoofs-to-claws trick—tried not to gape as a pair of bat-like wings emerged. Beating them experimentally for most of a minute, the beast gave them a last accusatory look, launched itself into the air and flapped heavily off.
Leidecker turned to her. “Veriform Gloriosa,” he said.
“Right.” Kris rubbed her neck with her good arm, where the muscles were tight and starting to ache. It had been a long day, and however exciting and informative, she wanted nothing more than to see the end of it. Even so, her curiosity was not yet quite dead. “What is it with everything having wings on this planet?”
Leidecker opened his mouth and took a breath, heralding an answer whose probable scope made Kris immediately regret giving in to her impulse. But the answer never appeared, perhaps because of Hardestan’s look and Vasquez’s diplomatic nudge. He exhaled, his mouth pulling down at the corners briefly, and said, “I’m afraid that’s a bit complicated.”
“Great.” Hardestan’s tone matched his look. “Now that we have that settled, can we get the hell outta here?”
It should not have been possible to get lost retracing their steps, but somehow they managed it, exiting the jungle into an empty clearing. Stunned looks and some choices before Hardestan took out his xel and located the aircar about two klicks north of their current position. Accessing the latest overhead imagery, he found a path through some open ground, and while it almost twice the straight-line distance, he insisted they take it. He encounter no resistance to his peremptory suggestion, Kris having had her fill of jungle cruising and Vasquez and Leidecker being too happy to offer any objection.
After a brief delay while Leidecker treated a minor cut in the corporal’s forearm—she had not escaped quite unscathed from her tussle with the Veriformii—they set out, Hardestan taking the lead. From the stiff way he walked, heels coming down hard, Kris guessed he’d had his fill of following.
Not far beyond the clearing, they came upon a trail through the tall, silvery-green grass that dominated this open space, a species aggressive enough to keep the jungle at bay, allowing only low bushes with pale turquois leaves to share its domain.
After a klick of walking, Leidecker spotted a clump of what he thought to be mushrooms growing beneath the turquois bushes. Mushrooms—fungi of all sorts—interested him extremely, these were very likely nondescript, and no, they should proceed; he would not detain them, but catch up very shortly. Hardly a minute. He insisted.
Hardestan shook his head, turned and walked off.
They hadn’t gone half a klick when a lean young man, with his hair braided and wearing gray soldier’s fatigues and a black beret, stepped out of the foliage a few meters up the trail, his back to them. Kris and Vasquez froze but Hardestan reacted instantly. He dropped into a firing crouch as his sidearm came up and shouted, “IPS! Show me your hands!”
The soldier jumped and spun around. “Whoa! Hey, man! You ain’t supposed to be here!”
“Hands!” Hardestan repeated, “Show ’em to me!”
“Chill down!” yelled the soldier. “There’s been a mistake—”
“Gimme those hands!”
“Back off, man! You’re makin’ a mistake!”
“Hands motherfucker!”
The soldier’s right hand dropped to his hip, a quick smooth motion, and Hardestan fired. Vasquez shoved Kris hard in the small of the back. As she fell she saw the soldier disappear in an explosion of pink mist; head, hands, and feet flying in all directions, bouncing to rest in the brush by the side of the trail. Hardestan never saw it. Gunshots cracked from among the trees and a 9-mm flechette round entered under his left ear, leaving vapor in its wake. The headless body flopped on the ground, and continued flopping; squirming aimlessly for about fifteen seconds. For Kris, lying in the tall grass about five meters from him, the smell of blood and atomized flesh sharp in her nostrils, it was the longest fifteen seconds in the world.
Boots tramped, running heavily, clumsily. Four people burst into the clearing, two with their weapons smoking. “Shit,” said the first one. He was short and round-headed; his scalp shaved and tattooed with metallic designs. “Ah shit.” He twisted around, called behind him, “Burk's toast, man. He’s wasted.” He turned back to the remains of the corpse. “Jesus F Christ.”
Kris twitched. Vasquez shoved her down hard.
Another man and woman walked into the clearing, looking right and left. The man, older with a patchwork of burn scars down one side of his neck, slung his rifle. “All right, who’s gonna explain this shit to me.” He also wore a black beret and sergeant’s tabs winked at his collar. The woman had a lieutenant’s braid on her cap; she took it off and twisted it in her hands as she looked around.
The tattooed soldier nudged Hardestan’s corpse
with his boot. “This jag sumbitch shot Burk, Sarge. Blew him away, just like that. Didn’t give him no chance.”
“Is that so.” The sergeant walked over, knelt, and began inspecting the body.
“Said he was IPS, Sarg—”
“He is IPS.” The sergeant dropped the bloodstained ID on Hardestan’s chest and stood up. “Wonderful. Just fuckin’ wonderful.”
“He shot Burk, Sarg,” Tattoos said again and the sergeant rounded on him. “Will you lock that shit up, Mitchell?” He turned on the other men. “What is this? A goddamn piss break? You think this guy was here on a picnic or something? This is a complete fubar we got here, boys and girls. Now make me a fuckin’ perimeter!” He sketched a salute at the lieutenant, who was still wringing her cap. “That is, with your permission, ma’am.” She nodded spasmodically. The men began to spread out.
Kris reached out and grabbed Vasquez’s shoulder. “Do we move?” she hissed. Vasquez shook her head emphatically—No. Wait. Two soldiers approached them, keeping a few paces apart, weapons ready, eyes on the trees. Kris felt Vasquez tense under her hand. “When I move, ma’am,” she whispered, “Go.”
The lead soldier stopped. “Way Oh! Got something here!” His rifle snapped to his shoulder, the blackened muzzle trained on Kris’s forehead. Vasquez came into a crouch—
“Hold your fire goddammit!” The sergeant came thumping over as the other soldier took up a cross-fire position. Vasquez relaxed.
“Well, well,” said the sergeant, looking down at them. “What have we got here?” He unslung his rifle, prodded Kris in the ribs with barrel. “On your feet, ladies. Back off, Merrill.” The soldier, evidently Merrill, moved back a few steps, keeping his weapon poised. The remaining soldiers came over to stand behind the sergeant. Kris and Vasquez got slowly to their feet. Neither spoke.
The sergeant looked them in the eye. His were a curious dark yellow; narrow, almost lost on the creases of his face. “Okay, girls. Which of you is going to tell me what all’s going on here?”
Kris looked steadily back at the sergeant. Silent. She heard Vasquez draw a slow breath and hold it. Her chin was set in way Kris thought did not bode well for the sergeant at all.
The sergeant glanced from one to the other. “All right. I get it.” He scratched the scar along his jaw. “I get it. But I am on a schedule. Now we can do this here, or I can take you upstairs and let the medicos do it their way. Personally I think you’d rather to talk to me.”
No answer.
“All right.” He shook his head. “You picked it.” He motioned to two of his men. “Come on, lads. Fitch, Hazard—truss ’em up. Shore leave’s canceled for today.”
The men muttered, swore, as the two selectees came forward, pulling lengths of cord from their kits. Vasquez obediently held her wrists out in front of her but the man on the right stopped. “Wait a minute.” He shook the hand holding the rope at Vasquez. “Wait a friggin’ minute, I know you. I know you.” He half turned. “Sarg! I know this one! She’s a—”
Something solid hit Kris hard in the side. She dropped, the breath going out her in a rush. A form rushed past her, then she heard yelling, a noise like a melon split with a mallet, a shriek, shots fired, hoarse bellowing cut off with a gasp, loud continuous hammering as a flechette rifle emptied its clip, a wet sodden cracking noise—silence.
Kris struggled to one knee, gasping. Vasquez stood all alone, her chest rising and falling in deep measured breaths. There were six more bodies on the grass.
“Oh my word.”
The voice came from behind Kris. She spun around, lost her balance, fell. Vasquez, who’d seen Leidecker come up behind her, shook her head.
“Oh my word,” Leidecker repeated. “Are they all dead?”
Vasquez nodded, a slight but determined motion.
“Jesus Mary Joseph,” whispered Leidecker. “What happened? I heard shooting—I came as quickly as I could. What happened?”
Vasquez looked at Kris. “I don’t know, Doctor,” Kris said. “I don’t know.” She was sitting up again, cradled her paralyzed arm in her lap. “One of those . . .” She pointed at the dead soldiers. “One of those came out on the trail in front of Hardestan. He went for his sidearm—Hardestan shot him. Some of those others shot Hardestan from the trees. Then they picked us up and Vasquez . . . Vasquez . . .” She broke off, looked at the corporal. Looked away. Closed her eyes.
For a while no one spoke, Leidecker’s lips moved without sound. He’d taken out his small emergency medkit and was sorting through it. It helped him recover his composure. “Are any of them revivable?” he asked.
Kris had no idea. Vasquez looked dubious.
“I should check,” Leidecker said. “My word. Oh my word,” and he went off with his kit.
“Your pardon, ma’am?” Vasquez was wiping blood off her hands with a small cloth. Kris realized that Vasquez considered them to be in action—she had killed, therefore this was an action. Kris was once again in charge.
“What is it?” she asked, slowly standing. Her side throbbed and she winced.
Vasquez looked alarmed. “Are you well, ma’am? Did I hurt you?”
“That was you?”
“’Fraid so, ma’am. You had to be on the ground—random shots, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“’S okay.” Kris rubbed the area, grimacing. “Just knocked the wind out of me”—and maybe cracked a rib or two. But she’d be skinned before she told Vasquez that. The corporal had probably just saved her life. “What were you gonna ask?”
“Permission to search the bodies, ma’am?”
“What?” Kris dropped her hand from her mouth and looked up.
Vasquez looked at Kris steadily. “I’m afraid it’s necessary, ma’am, We need to know who they are. There’s sure to be more of them.”
Kris could understand that. “Yeah. I’ll help you.”
Making that offer turned out to be a mistake. This heavy inanimate flesh, lying broken and askew, already beginning to cool, even now starting to show purple where lifeless blood was settling in the extremities, brought the carnage in Ilya Turabian’s CIC into her mind, far too vivid and immediate, and one corpse in particular . . .
Her stomach heaved, but she swallowed hard and kept doggedly on, collecting IDs, credit chips, orbital pass cards, folded notes and bits of plaspaper. None of it seemed very interesting and it was certainly fake—none of the names matched the ones the sergeant had used.
“Vasquez?” Kris asked as she turned out the sergeant’s pockets with one hands. “Who was the one who said he knew you?”
“His name was Hazard,” she answered, emptying the contents of one of the men’s packs. Looking over at Kris, she said: “Oh—take care with him, ma’am. He’s probably wired.”
“Wired?” Kris took hands off the corpse. Vasquez nodded, got up and came to join her. “That would be usual. Probably not transmitting though—too risky.” She was expertly patting the sergeant’s uniform. “I hope they didn’t . . . no, here it is.” She pulled out a small woven patch, looking like just a slightly heavier bit of cloth from the layers of the sergeant’s uniform. “They are so much harder to find if they implant them—especially if you don’t have a scanner,” she explained. “But mercenaries almost never do—they don’t like—”
“Corporal! I think we might save this one,” Leidecker’s shout interrupted her. “If you would assist me please.” Vasquez got to her feet and went over without another word. Kris watched her for a moment then left the sergeant and went over too.
“Complete dislocation between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae,” Leidecker was saying as Kris walked up. “Severed the spinal cord—a very clean break. No blunt trauma to the brain stem; that’s most promising. Ruptured trachea, no difficulty there . . . Now if we can just lift this artery here—that’s it, that’s very well. Cut a bit deeper here please—we need to drain this blood . . . There we go, yes, yes. Excellent . . .”
It was the female lieutenant, the cap she’d b
een strangling was still crushed in her fist. Leidecker and Vasquez worked quickly, steadily, opening the crushed and twisted throat, attaching the cryopacks to the severed arteries, Leidecker talking steadily and as if his assistant was altogether different from the person who’d done the severing and crushing a whole—how long? A minute? Two minutes?—ago.
And perhaps she was, Kris thought, watching Vasquez work on the dead woman with same swift capable efficiency that she’d used to render her so. Kris bent down, slid the crumpled black cap out of the stiffening fingers, smoothed it with her one hand, folded it precisely and laid it on the dead lieutenant’s breast. Then she stumbled a few steps and vomited in a bush.
* * *
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Vasquez was saying, her voice soft and hard to hear over the thrum of the flyer’s engines. Leidecker was piloting the little vehicle, doing a credible job and now the domes and spires of Isabelle Downs sparkled in the distance.
“Sorry?” Kris asked, looking aside at her. Vasquez was a little pale; she had even stumbled once or twice during the hike back to the flyer. Kris could not believe it was post-combat nerves. She glanced at the corporal’s forearm: it looked redder and more swollen around the dressing. “Sorry about what?”
“I haven’t been in action for quite some time, ma’am,” Vasquez said. “I’m afraid I may have overreacted.”
Kris chewed her lip. “If you did, that’s my fault not yours, corporal. I—ah—I wasn’t much help back there.”
Vasquez looked at her, her deep chocolate eyes strangely liquid. “Lethal force might not have been justified, ma’am. I’ve been thinking about that.”
“They had guns, Vasquez. They used them too. That soldier wasn’t reaching for his ID.”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 35