segmented insect.
Yalson took off her helmet, ran her fingers through her shortcropped hair and looked up and around, squinting in the bright
yellow-white light
falling from the station roof high above.
“Now, then," Unaha-Closp said, floating over toward Horza. The machine’s casing glittered in the harsh new light. “Where exactly
is this
device we’re looking for." It came close to Horza’s face. “Does your suit sensor register it. Is it here. Have we
found it."
Horza pushed the machine away with one hand. “Give me time, drone. We only just got here. I got the power on, didn’t I." He
walked past it,
followed by Yalson, still looking about her, and Wubslin, also staring, though mostly at the gleaming train.
Lights shone inside it.
The station filled with the hum of idling motors, the hiss of air circulators and fans. Unaha-Closp floated round to face
Horza, reversing
through the air while keeping level with the man’s face.
“What do you mean. Surely all you have to do is look at the screen; can you see the Mind on there or not." The drone came
closer, dipping
down to look at the controls and the small screen on Horza’s suit cuff. He swatted it away.
“I’m getting some interference from the reactor." Horza glanced at Wubslin. “We’ll cope with it."
“Take a look round the repair area, check the place out," Yalson said to the machine. “Make yourself useful."
“It isn’t working, is it." Unaha-Closp said. It kept pace with Horza, still facing him and backing through the air in front
of him. “That three-
legged lunatic smashed the mass sensor on the pallet, and now we’re blind; we’re back to square one, aren’t
we."
“No," Horza said impatiently, “we are not. We’ll repair it. Now, how about doing something useful for a change."
“For a change." Unaha-Closp said with what sounded like feeling. “For a
change.
You’re forgetting who it was saved all your skins back in
the tunnels when our cute little Idiran liaison officer over there
started running amuck."
“All
right,
drone," Horza said through clenched teeth. “I’ve said thank you. Now, why don’t you take a look around the station, just
in case
there’s anything to be seen."
“Like Minds you can’t spot on wasted suit mass sensors, for example. And what are you lot going to be doing while I’m doing
that."
“Resting," Horza said. “And thinking." He stopped at Xoxarle and inspected the Idiran’s bonds.
“Oh, great," Unaha-Closp sneered. “And a lot of good all your thinking has done—"
“For fuck’s sake, Unaha-Closp," Yalson said, sighing heavily, “either go or stay, but shut up."
“I see! Right!" Unaha-Closp drew away from them and rose in the air. “I’ll just go and lose myself, then! I should have—"
It was floating away as it spoke. Horza shouted over the drone’s voice, “Before you go, can you hear any alarms."
“What." Unaha-Closp came to a halt. Wubslin put a pained, studious expression on his face and looked around the station’s
bright walls,
as though making an effort to hear above the frequencies his ears could sense.
Unaha-Closp was silent for a moment, then said, “No. No alarms. I’m going now. I’ll check out the other train. When I think
you might be in a
more amenable mood I’ll come back." It turned and sped off.
“Dorolow could have heard the alarms," Aviger muttered, but nobody heard.
Wubslin looked up at the train, gleaming in the station lights, and like it, seemed to glow from within.
…
what is this. is it light. do i imagine it. am i dying. is this what happens. am i dying now, so soon. i thought i had a while
left and i don’t
deserve
…
light! it is light!
I can see again!
Welded to the cold metal by his own dry blood, his body cracked and twisted, mutilated and dying, he opened his one good eye
as far as
he could. Mucus had dried on it, and he had to blink, trying to clear it.
His body was a dark and alien land of pain, a continent of torment.
… One eye left. One arm. A leg missing, just lopped off. One numb and paralyzed, another broken (he tested to make sure, trying
to move
that limb; a pain like fire flashed through him, like a lightning flash over the shadowed country that was his body
and his pain),
and my face
…
my face
…
He felt like a smashed insect, abandoned by some children after an afternoon’s cruel play. They had thought he was dead, but
he was not
built the way they were. A few holes were nothing; an amputated limb… well, his blood did not gush like theirs
when a leg or arm was removed
(he remembered a recording of a human dissection), and for the warrior there was no shock; not
like their poor soft, flesh-flabby systems. He
had been shot in the face, but the beam or bullet had not penetrated through
the internal keratin brain cover, or severed his nerves. Similarly, his
eyes had been smashed, but the other side of his face
was intact, and he could still see.
It was so bright. His sight cleared and he looked, without moving, at the station roof.
He could feel himself dying slowly; an internal knowledge which, again, they might not have had. He could feel the slow leak
of his blood
inside his body, sense the pressure build-up in his torso, and the faint oozing through cracks in his keratin.
The remains of the suit would help
him but not save him. He could feel his internal organs slowly shutting down: too many
holes from one system to another. His stomach would
never digest his last meal, and his anterior lung-sack, which normally
held a reserve of hyperoxygenated blood for use when his body needed
its last reserves of strength, was emptying, its precious
fuel being squandered in the losing battle his body fought against the falling pressure of
his blood.
Dying… I am dying…. What difference whether it is in darkness or in light.
Great One, fallen comrades, children and mate… can you see me any better in this deeply buried, alien glare.
My name is Quayanorl, Great One, and
—
The idea was brighter than the pain when he’d tried to move his shattered leg, brighter than the station’s silent, staring
glow.
They had said they were going to station seven.
It was the last thing he remembered, apart from the sight of one of them floating through the air toward him. That one must
have shot him in
the face; he couldn’t remember it happening, but it made sense…. Sent to make sure he was dead. But he was
alive, and he had just had an
idea. It was a long shot, even if he could get it to work, even if he could shift himself, even
if it all worked… a long shot, in every sense…. But it
would be doing something; it would be a suitable end for a warrior,
whatever happened. The pain would be worth it.
He moved quickly, before he could change his mind, knowing that there might be little time (if he wasn’t already too late…
). The pain
seared through him like a sword.
From his broken, bloody mouth, a shout came.
Nobody heard. His shout echoed in the bright station. Then there was silence. His body throbbed with the aftershock of pain,
but he could
feel that he was free; the blood-weld was broken. He could move; in the light he could move.
Xoxarle, if you are still alive, I may soon have a little surprise for our friends.
…
“Drone."
