First Flight

by Claremont, Chris

  Suddenly, there was a faint clink of metal from the opposite end of Nicole's table. Instantly, every armed raider sprang into view and cut loose, their concentrated fire ripping chunks of material from deck and table, sending ricochets buzzing throughout the room. Nicole swept her energy beam across the deck directly in front of them, trying to scare more than hurt, but ready to kill if her ploy didn't work.

  As the raiders fell back in disarray, some crying out to her not to shoot, that they surrendered, Nicole grabbed Ciari's hand. She told him to catch hold of Shavrin, and then headed for the door. She let go as she cleared the entrance, twisting in midair to use her sneakered feet to rebound off the still hot bulkhead across the way. She landed in a combat crouch, braking herself with a hand and both feet while she scanned the passage ahead with her hander's infrared. The corridor was empty.

  "Ciari," she whispered, "you still with me?"

  "Here, Nicole." His voice placed him a meter or so behind and above her. "I have Shavrin."

  "Clear the door. Carefully. Let's not give some glory-hunting asshole in there any ideas. Are you near the cool bulkhead?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Move towards my voice, then, until we make contact." Moments passed, while Nicole spread-eagled herself against the wall, an eye glued to the scanner, the gun covering the infirmary door. No one inside, it seemed, was eager to play hero. Good; she'd had her fill of slaughter.

  She felt a feather-light stir of air across the outstretched fingers of her bad arm as Ciari's hand just missed hers, then he had her. The jolt was excruciating and she tasted blood, cursing to herself for biting the inside of her cheek. For a couple of breaths, all she could do was stand stock-still, hand in hand, not daring to move, holding onto Ciari and consciousness for dear life.

  "You're hurt," he exclaimed.

  She nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see, then said, "It's not serious," hoping he'd believe the lie. "I'll keep."

  "How much time," he asked.

  "Damned if I know; my watch got smashed in the scuffle. None to waste, that's certain. You have a weapon?"

  "Shotgun, off a trooper."

  "Then you're rearguard. Keep the doorway covered; I don't want any more surprises from that quarter."

  "What's wrong?"

  "When you or Shavrin drew the raider's fire—by the way, I thank you for that, should have thought of it myself—"

  "No one's perfect, Red."

  "– anyway, when those fucks popped up, I got a pretty good look at them through my IR scanner. I didn't see Morgan."

  "Maybe he didn't 'pop.' "

  "I think he ran. Probably the moment the lights blew, after taking those shots at me. If he did, we can bank on his being somewhere up ahead. Between us and Range Guide. And this time, when we run into him, he won't be armed with a lousy little darter."

  "You're sure?"

  "It's what I'd do in his place,"

  "Can we follow a different route to the dock?"

  "We're committed to the route recorded on the MapMaker. Besides, Morgan probably knows every cubic centimeter of this base by heart; he can find us no matter which way we go. Getting ourselves lost in the process will only make it easier for him. Nothing else for it but to be careful and keep our ringers crossed."

  The air swirled and eddied slightly as bodies moved in the darkness, and his hand in hers was replaced by Shavrin's. It was warmer than human and her claws pricked Nicole's skin. The Matriarch gave a squeeze, which Nicole decided meant that Ciari was in position, and the three of them started down the corridor.

  At the first junction, Nicole checked every direction before they moved into the open, only to find the way clear. A few levels above them as they crossed, they could see the jiggling beams of portable work lamps—a repair crew, struggling to restore the collapsed systems—but they were too far away to be any sort of threat.

  "Any action?" she asked Ciari.

  "All quiet behind."

  "The same ahead, so far; I wish that was good news."

  "Shall I take the point?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You don't sound it."

  "Neither do you, chum."

  "Which way, then?"

  "Down two levels, then left."

  "Nicole, there are bound to be emergency flashlights or lamps somewhere along these corridors; why don't we take some? We'll be able to move faster."

  "We'll also be a helluva lot better target. Or they'll draw the attention of everyone else in this rock, thinking we're a rescue or repair team, like the one we just passed. I'm surprised at you, Ciari; I thought you'd know better than that."

  "You're right. I should. I do."

  "As you said, you're not yourself. A Speaker is logical, not a hunter."

  "Hunters, Red, are what Halyan't'a are."

  She pushed herself down the DropShaft, finding the correct level by touch, and then waited for the others to join her. There was a noticeable tinge of smoke in the air. With the LifeSystems inoperative, smoke from Range Guide's fiie was quickly spreading throughout the complex. They must not have gotten the emergency bulkheads closed, Nicole thought, lucky for us.

  Every now and then, despite her care, Nicole made a wrong turn and they lost valuable seconds retracing their steps until the MapMaker's warning beeper finally fell silent. It was a laborious, drawn-out, nerve-wracking process, and the geometrically increasing tension soon took it toll. Though they'd covered barely a few hundred meters since leaving the infirmary, Nicole felt as if she'd run a marathon. Her left arm was virtually useless and she'd long since passed the hander back to Shavrin and while the pellet wounds on her side were superficial, they bled freely, making her that much weaker.

  The smoke was very thick when they reached the final DropShaft, making them cough almost constantly. Shavrin was most affected by the bad air; Nicole was half-carrying her. They were crawling now, a simple matter in zero-gravity, staying as close to the floor as possible, where the air was cleanest. As they neared the transit tunnel, they found evidence of the savage battle that had erupted after Nicole had left the ship. Most of the bodies were raiders, some in armor, most in coveralls, but, occasionally, they came across a Halyan't'a casualty. Each time, Shavrin growled deep in her throat, the noise ringing all sorts of primordial bells at the base of Nicole's brain. A squall of mingled rage and grief that was echoed louder by Ciari.

  As yet, they'd had no contact with Morgan.

  Nicole knew that was about to change.

  She stopped Ciari, faced him in the dark, touched him with her right hand. His skin was hot to the touch, and he was making unconscious chirrup-growls that reminded Nicole of the noises her family's cats made when they were hunting. With a start, she realized he was wearing steel finger-claws that mimicked the natural claws possessed by Shavrin and the Halyan't'a. He'd taken her good arm in both his hands and was gently, absently flexing his fingers, digging the claws into her forearm. It frightened her to realize how little she really knew him now.

  "Ben," she said softly, "listen to me. We're nearly there—up this shaft a level, then straight ahead through the exit, follow the corridor around to the reception area and we're home. This is where Morgan's going to make his move."

  "I know. I can smell him. I want him, Nicole; he's mine."

  Smell him, she thought, astounded, through this smoke?! "No," she told him, putting all her strength of command into her voice. "Do you hear me, Marshal. No!"

  He snarled with anger, claws drawing blood. "He's mine, Nicole. He killed Cat and Paolo and Chagay. He's slain Halyan't'a. It's my right to claim his life in return."

  "I'm in command," Nicole said slowly, spacing her words. "Until that changes, you'll do as I say, when I say it. You have one responsibility, Marshal, and that's to return Shavrin safely to her vessel."

  "She's going to help me; she wants Morgan dead, too!"

  "Does she? Ask her. She'll tell you what I'm telling you. She's needed to command Range Guide; you're needed to help her c
ommunicate with Andrei and Hana and the ships that find you. Without you both, this Embassy is over, and all the lives lost thus far will have been sacrificed in vain. That comes first, not your personal desire for vengeance, no matter how imperative it may seem. Do you understand?!"

  The Speaker discipline etched in Ciari's genes by the Halyan't'a virus forced him to relay Nicole's question to Shavrin, and repeat the answer to Nicole. Shavrin indeed understood how her "little brother" felt. But Nicole was correct. Duty must take precedence over desire.

  Ciari roared, a feline/human outcry that echoed and reechoed through the still corridors.

  Well, Nicole thought with a grim amusement, if Morgan had any doubts about our location, that took care of 'em.

  "What do you want me to do?" Ciari asked, his voice dull.

  "Wait. Here. Shavrin has the hander and I'm leaving you the MapMaker."

  "You're going up against Morgan unarmed—?!"

  "Don't be absurd. I took this off a corpse." She laid a Halyan't'a crossbow across her lap. Ciari caressed it lightly, pausing when his hand touched hers "Only one quarrel?" he asked after a while, his hand still resting on hers.

  "No. I've a quiver as well. I'm good for a half-dozen shots. I'll go first, to draw his fire; you two wait till the fireworks start. I'll try to lead Morgan away from the transit tunnel, to give you a clear run."

  "Suppose he doesn't fall for it?" Nicole shrugged. "Calculated risk."

  "Let me help, Nicole; we could work together."

  She was tempted. If only you were in your right mind, Ben, she thought, if I were sure I could trust you, even a little...

  "No," she said. "Stay with Shavrin. Her safety is your primary responsibility."

  "Usually," he joked, "where Speaker s are concerned, it's the other way 'round." And he pulled his hand away, the tips of his claws, raking through her sleeve to leave parallel trails of blood along the inside of her arm.

  Nicole told herself these weren't really Ciari's reactions, but those of a Halyan't'a, courtesy of the goddamned Speaker virus, his own natural passion being twisted and accentuated by the equally fierce emotions of that feline, predator race, the vicious rip-tide of feelings somehow breaking down both the rational restraints of his own mind and character and those imposed on him by the Speaker as well. He was being torn to shreds inside, a state of ongoing insanity that was growing progressively worse, as more and more of his human personality was submerged beneath the Halyan't'a facade. Nicole had no idea how to stop it. All she had in her favor was whatever ties of love and respect that bound the two of them, combined with her own force of character. Slender threads on which to hang three lives. "Don't fold on me, Ben," she breathed. "I'm counting on you."

  She tried her radio a final time. If she could contact Andrei or Hana, they might be able to hit Morgan from the rear and either capture the renegade or drive him off. But all she heard was ragged static. Reception had disintegrated the moment Hana's bombs had gone off, making Nicole's attempts to call for reinforcements, and learn how the others were faring, a waste of effort. For all she knew, their cause was lost, her crew dead, Range Guide full to the brim with raiders.

  She wondered how much time they had before Andrei fired the drive. Not much, probably. She shook her head in grim amusement—it would be too ironic for words to make it to the tunnel the instant after Ignition.

  With that cheerful thought in mind, Nicole had to force herself to move slowly, cautiously, through the pitch-black maze. Every sense, every fiber of her being, felt strained to the breaking point—alert for the slightest sound, stir in the air, smell, anything. Even though she couldn't see her hand in front of her face, maddeningly intrusive ghost images kept bursting across her mind's eye—memory flashes of what she'd seen coming this way barely a half-hour before. She had no idea how accurate the pictures were, so she ignored them, tried to shut them out of her awareness.

  She checked the IR scanner on her bow; the DropShaft was clear in both directions. She was about to push off when her foot slipped on something wet on the deck. She didn't fall—impossible in zero-gravity, at least in the traditional sense of falling down—but she did sprawl inelegantly in midair until she managed to brake herself with a hand on the entrance to the DropShaft.

  Underneath her was a body in battle armor. Inspired, she slung her bow across her back and hooked her good arm under the shoulders of the dead raider, heaving him into the shaft with an effort that left her sweating and nauseous. But she couldn't afford the seconds needed to rest and recover her strength. Instead, she gritted her teeth and shoved the body upward as hard as she could.

  The suit went up fast, as it would have done were the raider wearing it still alive and heading into a firefight. Nicole was right behind it.

  As the head and shoulders of the suit cleared the deck above, a rifle blaster fired on needle-beam, scoring a direct hit on the helmet. The rifle fired again, this time at the torso—a perfect shot through the heart. By then, Nicole had cleared the shaft and spotted where the shots were coming from. She paused long enough to snap off a quarrel, then sped around a corner and down a tangential passage. She made it to the first junction with all of a split second to spare—Morgan, she thought, heart pounding like a sledgehammer, it has to be Morgan, and the slimy fuck has a blaster, one of the big ones must have stripped it off a Halyan't'a; oh Christ oh God I'm dead I can't outgun that what am I saying, the prick missed, I conned him, he made a mistake! Behind her, the sniper slapped his beam setting to broad and scythed his rifle across the compartment, lighting it and the surrounding corridors with a lambent red glow. The gentle light was deceptive, however; what Morgan created in those few seconds was a holocaust, an instant vision of Hell.

  He did tremendous damage, but missed Nicole completely. Morgan was pivoting clockwise—unaware that Nicole had cut away to her right. So, she merely waited until the deadly lance of energy moved away from her before stepping out of hiding and letting fly a second bolt.

  She heard a sharp cry and the rifle stopped firing. She didn't stay where she was. The wound might be superficial, or she might not have even hit the man at all; Morgan might well be putting on an act. She turned quickly down the next corridor she came to.

  The faint scrape of metal on metal told her that Morgan was following.

  Almost instantly, Nicole knew she'd made a fatally wrong turn. She was swimming as fast as she could—without making any noise—and though she figured she'd gone a ways, she hadn't found any side passages. She must have turned into a main Trunk corridor—a direct, express, limited-access route from the docking bay to deep within the asteroid. She couldn't be certain, of course. In the darkness, a junction could be right in front of her, how was she to know? But if she acted on that assumption and was proved wrong, she was dead. She was well within the effective range of Morgan's rifle, without shielding or any place to hide.

  She checked her scanner. The image was miserable. The background heat generated by Morgan's barrage severely distorted its reception. Nicole prayed his scanner was having similar trouble. She turned back the way she'd come, leapfrogging from surface to surface—floor to wall to ceiling. Her only chance was to catch the man by surprise, to get in close where the rifle wouldn't be effective and try to take him hand to hand.

  With a rotten shoulder.

  Nicole had almost reached the junction when she heard the snap of the rifle firing, and saw the entrance to a far corridor fill with light. Morgan was spraying each passage in turn, counter-clockwise this time. Nicole had two shots before it was her turn.

  She exploded out of the tunnel like an Olympic sprinter. Morgan spotted her immediately and held his trigger finger down as he swung the blaster to bear. But the advantage was Nicole's. She had a marginal head start and her random pattern through the air kept her foe fractionally off balance, just enough to make the difference.

  She caromed into him, the rifle beam scorching her cheek. She smashed at Morgan like a crazy woman as she tried to wrest
the gun from his grasp. Somehow, she managed, sending it looping through the air, out of reach. She tried to pin the man, only to discover that the cry of pain she'd heard had been a ruse. The bastard was unhurt! And while luck had saved Nicole till now, it was little use against Morgan's decades of training and experience. She struck out with hands and feet, denying the pain in her left arm, forcing it to function, but he parried the blows easily, holding on to Nicole with one hand while the other hammered at her body. There was no elegance to this roughhouse fight, and each knew it would probably end with a death.

  Morgan had Nicole on her back, his hands tight around her throat, pressing against the carotid artery. If she couldn't break free, she'd be unconscious in seconds. Her right arm was tangled in the slings of her crossbow and quiver, pretty much useless. As a red haze closed over her mind, she twisted desperately, bitterly aware that she was at the end of her strength, while Morgan seemed at the peak of his. In the last, brutal flurry of punches, he'd thrown three to Nicole's one, and that one hadn't bothered him a bit.

  Suddenly, the slings slipped off her shoulder, giving the arm a bit more play. Nicole was running on instinct, her subconscious dredging up every dirty trick taught at the Academy and, more importantly, by Ciari. She groped for the bow. The safety was on, but that was all right, she had no intention of firing yet—and jabbed it straight upward into Morgan's body.

  This time, the raider's whoulff of surprise and pain was no sham. He released Nicole's neck and pushed away, trying to get clear before she could pull the trigger. Nicole snagged his leg with the bow, yanking him down, and got a foot in the face for her trouble. Morgan bounced off the deck like a jack-in-the-box, moving faster than Nicole could follow, over her head and towards the junction.

  Nicole rolled into a sitting position, freeing the safety as she brought the bow to her shoulder. She tried to raise her left arm to steady the bow, but it refused to move, so she rested the weapon on her upraised knees. She put her eye to the sight in time to see Morgan sweep across the deck towards his rifle, visible in the glow of the fires he had set. Nicole was trembling but there was no time for any Zen meditations; she had this single shot, it had to be good.