Nicole held her breath, centered the cross hairs. Morgan found the rifle and rolled flat to the deck, to present as small a target as possible as he brought it to bear. She pulled the trigger.
The quarrel took him full in the chest, and threw him back and away from the gun; he didn't stop until he struck the wall.
By then, Nicole was staggering in the opposite direction, down the passage to the reception stage and the transit tunnel beyond. She'd gone all of a dozen steps when, without any warning, the lights came on.
She cried out, throwing her good hand in front of her flash-blinded eyes. The smoke was so thick that, even at full power, the illumination was little better than a foggy twilight on Earth, but it was more than sufficient to dazzle eyes with fully dilated pupils.
Still, Nicole pushed on, desperate not to be left behind. Out of the smog, she heard her name. She tried to reply, but could manage no more than a strangled croak that she could barely hear and which instantly sent her into a spasm of vicious, hacking coughs.
Again, her name was called, cried by a man's electronically amplified voice.
"Here," she managed, or thought she did. She opened her eyes, but that was of marginal use. Even if there was anything to see, her vision was blocked by a huge shimmery purple and blueish-green ball, with smaller dots made up -of weirder colors dancing around its rim. Eyelids open or closed, it made no difference; the spots wouldn't go away.
She collapsed to the floor, dragging herself along, feeling her way by touch. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't draw a decent breath, her chest hurt so, everything hurt, she couldn't get a purchase on the slippery plating, a nail tore on a deck seam, she tried pushing with her toes, cheered inside as her body stirred. Try again, she thought, do it again, nothing to it, push push PUSH!
A shape emerged from the shadows, wearing an airpack and carrying a spare for her.
Ciari!
He knelt beside Nicole and fitted the pack over her face. She wanted simply to sit where she was forever and gulp down the cool, fresh air, even though her initial reaction was total nausea, but Ciari tugged her up, half-carrying her to the ramp.
"Time...," croaked Nicole.
"None," Ciari told her. "Our fifteen minutes ran out seven minutes ago. Shavrin and Andrei have been holding the ship till we found you."
"Goddamn it, I—why?!—told you... not to..."
"Peace, woman. Save your strength."
A Halyan't'a in full armor—looking like she'd seen some action—awaited them at the transit tunnel. Strangely, as they neared Range Guide, the atmosphere became much clearer. Nicole could feel a definite draft washing across her body, as the smoke was flushed OutShip, into the asteroid, adding to the pressure on the raiders' LifeSystem.
"Others...?"
"Fine. Hana came home via the aft tunnel. That's been blown, as have all mooring lines and umbilicals. This tunnel's our sole link with the rock. Did you nail Morgan?" he asked without missing a beat.
"Think so. Hit him... with a bolt."
"You didn't make sure?"
"Ben, all I cared... was getting out... intact..."
Ciari stopped, snapping a command to the sentry before reaching for Nicole's bow. She tightened her grip and refused to let go.
"What—?!" she demanded.
"Honor demands life for life, Nicole. I don't expect you to understand."
Desperation made her find her full voice. "I do understand. But this isn't the time! We have to go!"
"I have to finish Morgan!"
"That's crazy!"
Ciari spat another command, but the warrior never lived to obey as a volley of rocket darts ripped her apart. Nicole reacted faster than she thought possible, kicking Ciari's legs out from under him and hauling him to the deck. She wrenched the sentry's rifle from her hand, dimly registering that there was blood everywhere, how incongruously messy this death was, and returned fire. The response was a second volley of HiPower warheads that shattered plating and sprayed shrapnel all around them. Nicole heard the shrill whistle of escaping air and knew the tunnel had been breached.
She hooked her hand onto Ciari's airpack and heaved him towards the open airlock. He bellowed in fury, trying to grab hold of something to brake his flight, but Nicole had deliberately sent him down the center of the tunnel; he'd be hard pressed stopping before he reached the lock's inner hatch. She cut loose into the smoke again, a broad beam blast to keep the oppositions' heads down and followed hot on Ciari's heels, a final surge of adrenaline giving her the strength required for this idiot stunt. She snagged the hatch controls and yanked hard.
Ciari was on her as the massive door cycled shut. She ducked his claws and grabbed him by the waist, shoving the pair of them up above the mass of the hatch, trying to keep Ciari as far as she could from the opening.
Close, please, dammit, she thought desperately. Close!
"Let me go," he raged. "Let me go!"
"Stop it, Ben! Get hold of yourself. You can't go out there! Remember who you are!"
"Morgan's out there! I have to kill him! The dead cry out for vengeance! If I don't, their souls will drift forever in Maenaes't'whct'y'a—the void between—without honor, without Name!"
"That isn't Morgan! It's a squad of raiders, in full armor, and if we don't get our act together they're going to blast their way in here! Ciari, please—!"
He didn't hear, or didn't want to hear. Her words had no effect, except perhaps to make him even madder. Fortunately, he'd forgotten virtually all he'd ever known about fighting, or Nicole wouldn't have lasted seconds. He was trying to kill her as a Halyan't'a would, but his body couldn't obey the commands given by his brain. His timing was off. He kept missing, giving Nicole openings she couldn't ignore. She couldn't match his power. He was too big, for all his unaccustomed clumsiness, and she was death warmed over, so she went the sneaky route, ducking under a roundhouse slash of his claws to climb onto his back like a leech, legs around his waist to lock herself in place, arm tight around the throat. Then, before he could dislodge her, she did to him what Morgan had tried with her—pressed down on his carotid artery until he blacked out.
The wallcom beeped and she heard Hana's frantic voice: "Nicole! What's happening in there, we don't have video? Are you all right? Nicole! Nicole!"
"Alive, Hanako, both of us. He went kind of bonkers, had to deck him. Tell Andrei—fire the engines!"
"As soon as you're clear..."
"Now! There's a battle squad of raiders knocking at the door; we can't afford to wait any longer! If you're ready, Andrei, do it! Forget about us—just get Range Guide the hell out of here!"
Nicole heard a hiss and, for a split second, thought they'd been holed. Then, giant cushions ballooned outward from the bulkheads to fill the compartment. While she was able, Nicole scrambled to Ciari's side, casting about for the airpacks, but they were out of reach and the cushions were growing so quickly she had no time to get to one.
As the bags flowed over her, Nicole realized they weren't fabric at all, but some sort of gelatin. Instinctively, she held her breath, but the goo, warm and slightly cinnamon tasting, like the Halyan't'a atmosphere, forced its way down her throat and into her lungs. A numbness spread outward from her chest and Nicole was astounded to discover that, though she'd ceased breathing, she was in no way starved for oxygen. The gel was keeping her alive.
She felt a massive, basso vibration—a majestic thrumm that shook her inside and out, as it did the starship –
– and then she was crushed against the rear bulkhead by an acceleration so monstrous that, despite the gel, she was smashed into instant oblivion.
Chapter Fourteen
She heard a musical chime, and then a soft, female voice inquired, "Destination, please?"
"Challenger Plaza," she replied. "Stand by, please."
The computer announced, "A car is available. Do not enter the car until it has come to a complete stop and the access hatch is fully open, and watch your step crossing the sill."
She winced slightly as she settled herself into the seat nearest the door, stretching her right leg beside her cane and rubbing it. The leg was less than a fortnight out of its cast and, after months in zero and low-gravity hospital wards, even the Moon took some getting used to. She wasn't looking forward to her trip Earthside next week.
She dozed as the tiny Rapitrans car raced through the labyrinthine tunnels beneath Da Vinci Base, outbound for Grissom Starport. She still tired easily, and today's award ceremony had taken her very nearly to the end of her string. She wanted a nice, firm bed and about a year's uninterrupted rest. But those luxuries would have to wait.
The gentle shift in the car's Delta-Vee that indicated its deceleration into a station woke her, and she stretched. As she did, she caught sight of herself in a poly crystal advertising poster, and grinned. She looked much the same as she had when she left the Moon aboard Wanderer. True, there were lines across her forehead and around her eyes that hadn't been there fifteen months ago, but they weren't all that noticeable. Her physical injuries were healing nicely. There was no permanent damage, and in time, the medicos assured her, she'd be as good as new. The only permanent scars were inside her skull.
An obvious difference was the medal worn beneath the pilot's wings on her left breast. A simple silver cross, with a flaming golden Sun at the intersection—the Solar Cross.
Paolo and Cat had received the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously.
The wallcom chimed, the disembodied female voice spoke: "Arrival at your requested destination will be in one minute. Please remain seated until the vehicle has come to a full stop."
As the door swung open, she pushed herself clumsily to her feet, wondering, as she heard herself make a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan, if this was what it was like to be old, and automatically slid her IdentiCard into the car's charge slot.
"Thank you for riding Lunar Rapitrans, Lieutenant Shea," the voice told her. "Have a pleasant day, and congratulations on your award."
She smiled incredulously as she turned back to the car. Whoever programmed the Rapitrans computer had a truly wacko sense of propriety. She loved it. "Thank you," she replied, "very much."
"You're quite welcome," the computer said as the hatch closed.
Nicole was laughing as she made her way up the ramp to Challenger Plaza.
Her mood changed as she crossed the broad promenade to the man-high cenotaph in its exact center. The monument wasn't really much to look at, just a pillar of rough-hewn, haphazardly stuck together stone, but the rocks that formed it were gathered from every planet and moon known to Humankind: Earth, Luna, Mars, Venus, Mercury, Pluto, the Jovian and Saturnian moons, all the big asteroids, and many of the small ones—the Outer Planets and their moons, plus the Out-System colonies of Faraway, Last Chance, Paradise and NieuwHome. The year didn't pass without some new chunk of rock, from some previously uncharted celestial body, being added.
Outside of Tranquility Base—where Neil Armstrong and "Buzz" Aldrin had become the first men to set foot on the Moon—this was the most famous memorial anywhere in Human Space.
One face of the cenotaph had been smoothed and polished. There was an etching of a Type 1 Rockwell STS—the original Shuttle—a second after Ignition, as the massive spacecraft was just lifting clear of the gantry. And below, a plaque. It bore no legend, only a list of names, but Nicole knew what it represented. She wouldn't be surprised if every child in the Global Village did. And you certainly didn't spend an hour inside the Air Force—and especially NASA—without learning of this memorial, and what it meant.
These were the names of those who'd died in the exploration of space. Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee of Apollo 1. The Russian, Vladimir Komarov. The crew of Challenger, in whose honor the plaza was named. So many names. With three new ones at the bottom: Catherine Garcia, Paul DaCuhna, Chagay Shomron.
As she looked at them, Nicole's fatigue finally caught up with her and she hunched forward, putting her weight on the cane. She reached up with a hand to wipe eyes suddenly blurred with tears and, for a while, stood motionless, crying, letting her grief carry her along.
"There's an old saying," a familiar voice said. " 'We fly, and we die.' "
Nicole automatically straightened to attention and saluted General Canfield, who shook her head. "No ceremony here, Nicole. No rank. Merely two astronauts—colleagues, young and," a slight pause, a slighter smile, "older, paying their respects to those who've gone before and paid the price."
Canfield held out a handkerchief and Nicole took it, wiped her eyes, blew her nose; the General tactfully motioned for her to keep it. They were dressed the same, in formal Air Force blues, Canfield's stars gleaming on her shoulder boards, medals striking multi-colored fire on her breast.
"I was thinking of the plaque at Chaffee," Nicole said, "listing the recipients of the Congressional. I wanted to claw Morgan's name off it. It was scary, to feel such hate after all this time, but to see him sharing space with the likes of Cat and Paolo, I thought it obscene."
"What Daniel became in no way diminishes what he was. Therein, I suppose, lies the tragedy of his life."
Nicole looked around the Plaza, following the vaulted columns up to their apex. The roof was a giant back-lit transparency of the galaxy that shifted in concert to the natural movement of the Moon, Earth and Sol, creating the illusion that one was outside, on the surface, gazing at the actual stars.
"I had a lot of time in hospital," she said. "I did a lot of reading." Now she looked Canfield in the eye. "I know."
"What"—Canfield placed the faintest emphasis on that word—"do you know?"
"My father was a junior member of the firm that handled your appeal; he got no credit, but I know his style. It's obvious he wrote the briefs."
"So?"
"What was he to you? And what am I?"
"A friend. And a somewhat smart-assed shavetail."
Nicole shook her head. "It was more. Too many people react as if my being here has something to do with you, that there's some sort of link between us, old business. Morgan wasn't simply coming after Cat when he ambushed Wanderer; I was part of it, two birds with one stone, a chance for Morgan to twist the knife into your guts, to hurt you for the sheer joy of it, before he finished the job. That does not bespeak a casual link."
"Your father and I were involved."
"Lovers?"
"In love. Very much so."
"But you wouldn't stay. And he couldn't go."
"What he was then—what we had—in no way diminishes what exists today. He loves your mother very much, I see that in you."
"What else?"
Canfield smiled, then chuckled. "A mirror," she said. "I never asked for any special favors."
"What you got, young lady—good and bad—you earned. That won't change. It isn't your supposed connection to me that marks you. Though, on occasion, it will no doubt make life difficult. It's your own skill. You set your standard, Nicole; I, and my staff, merely mean to hold you to it."
"Lucky me."
"You look uncomfortable. Is your leg acting up?"
"A little. But mostly, it's this damn uniform. Haven't worn one in so long, I feel like I'm in a strait-jacket. I'd give almost anything to dump it for some cutoffs, a sweatshirt, sneaks and my flight jacket."
"In time." She looked past Nicole. "Good morning, Marshal."
"General," Ciari replied.
"If you'll both excuse me," she said, "I suppose the Embassy awaits." And she strode purposefully away. Ciari gathered Nicole into his arms and she couldn't help a wince as he swept her off the floor. Immediately, but gently, he set her down, eyeing her with concern. "I'm okay," she assured him. "Really."
"Well," he confessed, certain he'd been conned, "you seemed fine last night."
"I was inspired. In retrospect, I was also crazy. I am paying the price."
A laugh rumbled out of him and she gave his hand a squeeze, thinking how nice it was to feel th
e smooth tips of his fingers again, instead of Halyan't'a fighting claws. Looking at him, she compared images. Shavrin had fed him the antidote to the Speaker virus as soon as rescue parties pulled them from the airlock. Nicole had seen the video tapes; even thinking about it, months later, made her queasy. The gel had saved them from certain death, but only by the barest of margins. Hana and Andrei, working with the Halyan't'a medical staff, had stabilized them as best they could and then shoved them into stasis until they could be conveyed to a decent hospital facility. At that, for the first couple of weeks, it had been touch and go. Nicole almost hadn't made it.
Today, however, both were on the road to full recovery. Physically, Ciari's eyes were normal, though their perceptible range had expanded closer to Halyan't'a norms, and his hair would always possess a texture more Alien than human. He'd. retained much of his ability to speak their language, while losing the vast majority of the racial memories that had briefly driven him insane. He was more graceful than he'd ever been, yet far less so than as a Speaker; in bed, he'd complained bitterly of feeling like a "lump" whenever he moved.
"The moon for your thoughts," he asked her.
"I'll miss you," she said simply.
She wanted to say more—so much more—yet found herself confined by simple language. The words available to her weren't appropriate to what she wanted to say. "I'll miss you, too," he said. "Walk with me?"
She let him lead, then cried out in mock-anguish: "My shit-for-brains memory's going, along with my manners, have I congratulated you, Ben, on your appointment to our Embassy to the Halyan't'a?"
He smiled, nodded. "Often."
"See. I rest my case. Senile before thirty. Official translator, though—quite a responsibility."
First Flight Page 25
