Lamm threw the plasma gun down and sailed off toward the shuttle alone, swearing loudly
over the open channel on which Yalson was still trying
to call the Bratsilakins.
They waded through the tall cane grass and bushes under the
whoosh
ing trails of plasma bolts, as Jandraligeli gave them cover.
They had to duck occasionally as small-bore projectile fire tore through the greenery around them.
They sprawled in the hangar of the
Clear Air Turbulence,
beside the still warm shuttle as it clicked and creaked, cooling down again after its
high-speed climb through the atmosphere.
Nobody wanted to talk. They just sat or lay on the deck, some with their backs against the side of the warm shuttle. Those
who had been
inside the temple were the most obviously affected, but even the others, who had only heard the mayhem over their
suit communicators,
seemed in a state of mild shock. Helmets and guns lay scattered about them.
“ ‘Temple of Light,’ " Jandraligeli said eventually, and gave what sounded like a mixture of laugh and snort.
“Temple of fucking Light," Lamm agreed.
“Mipp," Kraiklyn said in a tired voice to his helmet, “any signals from the Bratsilakins."
Mipp, still on the
CAT
’s small bridge, reported that there was nothing.
“We ought to bomb that place to fuck," Lamm said. “Nuke the bastards." Nobody replied. Yalson got up slowly and left the hangar,
walking
tiredly up the steps to the upper deck, helmet dangling from one arm, gun from the other, her head down.
“I’m afraid we’ve lost that radar." Wubslin closed an inspection hatch and rolled out from underneath the nose of the shuttle.
“That first bit of
hostile fire…" His voice trailed off.
“Least nobody’s injured," Neisin said. He looked at Dorolow. “Your eyes better." The woman nodded but kept her eyes closed.
Neisin
nodded, too. “Actually worse, when people are injured. We were lucky." He dug into a small pack on the front of his
suit and produced a little
metal container. He sucked at a nipple at the top and grimaced, shaking his head. “Yeah, we were
lucky. And it was fairly quick for them, too."
He nodded to himself, not looking at anybody, not caring that nobody seemed
to be listening to him. “See how everybody we’ve lost all shared
the same… I mean they went in pairs… or threes… huh." He
took another slug and shook his head. Dorolow was nearby; she reached over
and held out her hand. Neisin looked at her in
surprise, then handed the small flask to her. She took a swig and passed it back. Neisin looked
around, but no one else wanted
any.
Horza sat and said nothing. He was staring at the cold lights of the hangar, trying not to see the scene he had witnessed
in the hall of the
dark temple.
The
Clear Air Turbulence
broke orbit on fusion drive and headed for the outer edge of Marjoin’s gravity well, where it could engage its warp
motors.
It didn’t pick up any signals from the Bratsilakins and it didn’t bomb the Temple of Light. It set a course for the Vavatch
Orbital.
From radio transmissions they had picked up from the planet they worked out what had happened to the place, what had caused
the monks
and priests in the temple to be so well armed. Two nation states on the world of Marjoin were at war, and the temple
was near the frontier
between the two countries, constantly ready for attack. One of the states was vaguely socialist; the
other was religiously inspired, the priests in
the Temple of Light representing one sect of that militant faith. The war was
partly caused by the greater, galactic conflict taking place around it,
as well as being a tiny and approximate image of it.
It was that reflection, Horza realized, which had killed the members of the Company, as
much as any bounced laserflash.
Horza wasn’t sure how he would sleep that night. He lay awake for a few hours, listening to Wubslin having quiet nightmares.
Then the cabin
door was tapped lightly. Yalson came in and sat on Horza’s bunk. She put her head on his shoulder and they
held each other. After a while she
took his hand and led him quietly down the companionway, away from the mess—where a splash
of light and distant music witnessed that the
unsleeping Kraiklyn was unwinding with a drug flask and a holosound tape—down
to the cabin which had been Gow’s and kee-Alsorofus’s.
In the darkness of the cabin, on a small bed full of strange scents and new textures, they performed the same old act, theirs—they
both
knew—an almost inevitably barren cross-matching of species and cultures thousands of light-years apart. Then they slept.