City of Pearl

by Karen Traviss

  She’s gone. His fragile world slipped away from him. Stupid, stupid, unnecessary. He could have survived whatever they fired his way. She knew that.

  Then she inhaled a huge gasping breath and propped herself up on her elbow.

  “Christ, my ribs,” she wheezed. Her eyes were watering with pain. She inspected the area of fabric where the projectile had struck her and tapped the now rigid material with her finger, taking deep irregular breaths. “Don’t tell me this stuff wasn’t worth the money. And when I take you down, stay down, will you? Jesus, I think I’ve busted my shoulder.”

  And she was looking up at him with a relieved grin when the second projectile hit her above her left ear and sent a plume of bright blood and bone spraying into the air.

  Bennett took two seconds to release pressure on Qureshi’s hemorrhage, shoulder his rifle and swing round to take out the isenj sniper they had overlooked because he was behind them.

  He sprinted across to Aras and looked down at Shan. “Oh Jesus,” he said. “Shit. Shit.”

  Aras knew little about human medicine but he knew head wounds were invariably fatal. He checked Shan’s pulse. She was alive. But there was a five-centimeter wound in her skull that was leaking dark blood, and he could see through the shattered bone and into the soft tissue beneath.

  Bennett called base and summoned both scoots. “We’ve got to get her back to camp,” he said. He looked at Shan’s shattered skull again. “Look, I’m not sure even Kris has the kit to deal with that. But I know you need to keep head trauma cases as cold as you can. At least the night temperature’s on our side.”

  “She’s dying,” said Aras. And she didn’t need to, not for me.

  “I’m sorry. Qureshi’s losing a lot of blood too. Sooner we get them back to camp the better.”

  Not even Dr. Hugel can help her.

  The isenj transport was still burning: Qureshi’s grenade had done an efficient job.

  But you can do something, Aras.

  The colony had reasonably competent surgeons. But this was damage to the brain, not a shattered leg or a mangled arm. And even if Actaeon itself had the medical facilities to cope with this injury, it would probably take hours to negotiate with them and transfer her.

  Shan doesn’t have hours.

  She was his friend. She could have stood back and let him take the isenj, as he had done before, but she tried to protect him. Nobody else ever had.

  She’s dying for you. You have a duty to her.

  And then 500 years of isolation overwhelmed his obedience to wess’har law, and he reached for his tilgir.

  I will not lose this friend.

  “Go look after Qureshi, Sergeant,” Aras said quietly. “I’m not without some medical skill.” Bennett hovered. Aras glared. “I said go.”

  He didn’t want Bennett to see him do this; he wouldn’t have understood. Aras pulled off his right glove, took his tilgir and skinned a slice off his palm. He needed to get his infected blood into her system and after that it was up to the c’naatat. He pressed his bleeding palm over the wound and felt her blood welling up against it.

  It’s a very adaptable organism.

  Cuts stopped bleeding fast. He had to keep slicing into his flesh anew every minute or two to maintain a flow. Bennett was busy with Qureshi, packing dressing into her leg and keeping her talking about nothing in particular. Aras waited.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t work. Perhaps gethes weren’t to c’naatat’s taste after all.

  Aras had the very clear sense of having stepped into a different world, one he could not now escape. It was why he and his comrades had slaughtered every last isenj on Bezer’ej—to stop the parasite getting loose into the wider isenj population and beyond. Now he had willingly, knowingly, infected a gethes.

  He’d pay for that, sooner or later. But right then all he cared about was that Shan Frankland had not thrown away her precious life in a conflict of his making.

  Her eyes were shut, her face slack and suddenly very much younger for the loss of expression. Ten minutes, blood to blood: if it hadn’t started colonizing her now, it never would. He folded his overjacket and placed it gently under her head. If he had stood by and done nothing, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life.

  And that would be a very long time indeed.

  “Scoots in range, Aras,” Bennett called. “How’s she doing?”

  Aras smoothed the sticky, blood-matted hair back from Shan’s head and checked the wound. It had stopped bleeding and so had he. He felt for her pulse: stronger, more regular. Her scalp was hot to his touch. He recalled that sensation of fever every time his gold skin darkened and his face reshaped itself and unseen cells metamorphosed deep inside him.

  “She’s still breathing,” he said.

  “Where’s Rayat?”

  “Over here, with me. Bit shaken. Galvin was hit in the crossfire.”

  Aras spat on his fingers and wiped emerging debris away from the wound as best he could. Small shards of bone and blood clots plopped out, cleared by a microscopic army. A splinter of something metallic glittered in the clots.

  Yes, the wound was changing. The shattered edge of the bone looked smoother. He adjusted the makeshift pillow under Shan’s head and turned her to a more comfortable position. Then he stood up, pulled on his gloves and walked over to Bennett.

  Qureshi looked ashen and confused but she was conscious. Bennett was supporting her shoulders.

  “I was telling her it was a bloody good shot,” Bennett said. “It was, wasn’t it, sir?”

  “It was indeed,” said Aras. He leaned over Rayat, who was sitting against an efte hugging his knees to his chest, and dragged him to his feet by his collar.

  Rayat’s fear-scent was overwhelming. “Get your—”

  Aras hit him hard across the face, backhanded. “If Shan Chail dies I will kill you. I may kill you anyway. You caused this and I don’t forget easily.”

  Rayat wiped blood from his lip and wandered off in silence to sit one tree farther away. He had got his precious leaves. Aras hoped he thought it worth the price. He returned to Shan’s side and sat with her until the scoots arrived with Webster and Becken.

  Webster was dubious about taking Shan back to the colony, but like most gethes she found it hard to argue with Aras. At least she’d brought a body bag for Galvin. She enlisted Rayat to help her zip the body into it while Bennett loaded Qureshi onto Becken’s scoot.

  “We’ll walk,” said Bennett. “I’m sure Dr. Rayat will take his turn carrying Dr. Galvin.”

  Aras decided he liked Bennett. He checked Shan one more time before lifting her onto the vehicle. The wound was about the width of a grape now: the bone was closing and the skin was creeping across it.

  It was healing well. It was healing c’naatat-fast.

  25

  July 12.

  To Commander Lindsay Julia Neville, European Federal Navy: a son, David Christopher, 3.8kg, in Constantine infirmary wing.

  EDDIE MICHALLAT, BBChan,

  note to all personnel

  Shan felt good. No, she felt great. She woke up with just a suggestion of a headache and an overwhelming urge to eat.

  It was as if she had woken after a wild party, forgotten how she ended up on someone’s sofa, and skipped the hangover. She had never succumbed to drinking sprees, but she’d heard enough excuses from those who had.

  And she was in Constantine. The walls of the room were smooth, soothingly gold, the light from overhead filtered and gentle. It was Josh’s home.

  Oh shit. Someone had undressed her. She didn’t remember getting undressed. The last thing she recalled was seeing the isenj raising weapons and then launching herself at Aras to get him out of the line of fire. Yes, she’d brought down a 170-kg alien from a standing start. She could still do the business. The thought was as reassuring as a pat on the back.

  That was it. She had crashed into the equivalent of a brick wall, and maybe she was here because she’d come off worst from the collisio
n. She felt her shoulder cautiously. And she knew Aras was unharmed, because she could remember one more thing: he was standing over her in this room, fringed by the gold light, fragrant with sandalwood, and he said, “You’re awake.”

  The memory lapse made a change from the Suppressed Briefing, which was still dusting memories out of neglected corners of her brain and tutting about the mess. Still, she had survived. Breakfast would taste extra good this morning.

  She washed thoroughly in the small basin, holding her head under the spout to rinse her hair. Someone—probably Deborah—had left a few towels for her and some working clothes. What had happened to her fatigues? She cast around and saw her swiss and the contents of her many pockets arranged neatly on the nightstand in the corner. Someone had sorted out her kit so perhaps they had taken care of her clothes too. She fretted about the ballistic vest—extra-lightweight, flexible, very expensive—that she’d paid for out of her own pocket. It wasn’t police issue. She wanted it back.

  And what had happened to Rayat and Galvin?

  The smell of breakfast beckoned through the door, and she followed it, rubbing her hair dry with one of the drab, thin but very efficient towels that were standard issue in Constantine. There was no sign of the Garrods but Aras was sitting at the kitchen table. He stood up when he saw her and began laying food and tea on the table.

  “You read my mind,” she said. “God, I could eat a scabby cat with piles.”

  “This is a joke, yes?”

  “Just a figure of speech to show I’m ravenous.”

  “How do you feel?”

  She shrugged. “Terrific. Now tell me what happened. I have a few blank spots.” Tea, porridge and a heap of fruit made an appetizing landscape in front of her. She plunged in. Aras watched her.

  “You have been unconscious for seven days,” he said.

  “Commander Neville has produced a premature male child. Dr. Galvin is dead. Marine Qureshi is recovering and Dr. Rayat is confined to quarters.”

  It took a lot to stun her. This news did the job very well. She took it in slowly. “I’ve missed something important here, haven’t I?”

  “What do you recall?”

  “Everything up to when I brought you down.”

  Aras paused as if measuring his words, which was a very unwess’har reaction. “You were shot in the head.”

  She put her hand to her damp hair instinctively. She couldn’t feel any sutures. “Minor, then?”

  Again, a pause, and it bothered her. “Relatively.”

  “And Galvin?”

  “She was hit by Sergeant Bennett in the crossfire.”

  “Oh Christ, poor Ade. I bet he’s taking that badly.”

  “Not as badly as Galvin.”

  “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for her. She could have got us all killed. Can I assume the isenj didn’t walk away from it either?”

  “None from that party. There are some others I need to find.”

  “Have we had any further contact from Actaeon?”

  “Commander Okurt has been in touch to express his regret at the skirmish and to remind us that he has orders not to offend the isenj.”

  “Hang on, they effectively kidnapped two of our personnel, arseholes or not. How does that not qualify for some practical sympathy?”

  “Because the ussissi tell us that the isenj see the gethes here as wess’har allies, especially now that shots have been exchanged. What is the word? Disavow. Actaeon has disavowed our actions.”

  At least that settled one thing. Perault, the SB and the grand mission were irrelevant now. “Is the gene bank secure?”

  “All material is now on Wess’ej.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Aras.

  “Have I done something to piss you off?”

  “Nothing.” He pushed a basket of rough bread rolls in front of her. “But please don’t attempt to return to your camp yet. Promise me you will stay here. Or I will lock you in.”

  “They don’t have locks here,” she said, and was comforted by his concern. She cared what he thought of her. That was a novelty in itself; nobody else’s opinion mattered a damn. “I ought to see Lin, though. How’s the baby?”

  “This is a difficult environment for a human child,” Aras said. “The first generation of the colonists lost many babies the same way, but they adapted fast.”

  She knew he wasn’t being callous. He simply had a long-term perspective that sounded brutal. Shan wondered if it was any more brutal than her expecting Lindsay to terminate her pregnancy.

  But that was emotional stuff. She skirted round it and continued eating, wondering where her appetite had come from.

  You worry too much, Lindsay told herself. Deborah Garrod knew more about caring for babies than Kris Hugel and all her qualifications laid end to end. Let her get on with it. But it was difficult to concentrate on a diplomatic crisis when her body was telling her that she had a much more pressing priority. As soon as she’d finished with Bennett, she’d head over to Constantine and sit with David.

  “Okay, let me get this right.” She had recorded this incident report four different times now and it still seemed a mess. The only hard evidence she had was Galvin’s body in the freezer with five FEU standard rounds in it. At least Parekh had company. The dead isenj had vanished under efficient rockvelvets, which were much faster off the mark than she had imagined. “Who fired first?”

  Bennett adopted a fixed I’m-remembering look. “I would say the isenj did, but that was only because they were quicker on the draw than Aras. One round from the isenj took Frankland down and we returned fire. Qureshi launched a grenade at the vehicle and I neutralized the remaining isenj. A second shot from behind us hit Frankland in the head and I located the position and neutralized the sniper. Galvin—”

  “Galvin was a stupid cow who compromised your safety. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Shame it wasn’t Rayat, too.”

  “Bit harsh, Boss.”

  “I’m fed up putting my people on the line for civvies who don’t heed warnings. Screw them.”

  “How is Frankland?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Josh says she’s conscious and mobile. But they’re keeping her in for the time being.”

  “Bloody miracle.”

  “What is?”

  “She had a hole in her skull you could put three fingers in. I’ve never seen anyone recover from that sort of injury without major neurosurgery, and then they’re not much use afterwards. Except as a doorstop.”

  “If the wess’har have better surgical technology than we do, maybe that’s the answer. I’m sure they do.”

  Bennett seemed gratefully amazed rather than suspicious. He dismissed himself with a sharp salute and Lindsay thought better of sending the report to Actaeon until she could concentrate properly.

  In Constantine’s small infirmary—a maze of well-lit tiled rooms, nothing more—Kris Hugel and Deborah Garrod leaned over David’s cot. Lindsay watched them quietly for a few moments before making deliberately noisy steps, just in case they were discussing some aspect of her child’s health that they didn’t want her to hear. They weren’t. They were silent.

  “Hi, Lin,” said Hugel. “How are you?”

  “You could do with a rest,” said Deborah.

  Lindsay didn’t want a rest. She wanted David. She leaned in and picked him up, cradling his head in her hand and still utterly astonished by him, as astonished as she had been when she had seen Aras or the isenj or the bezeri luminescence. He was so far beyond the world she was used to that she was almost afraid. He made rhythmic, wet sighing noises.

  “He’s still having problems breathing at the moment,” said Hugel. “He’s thirty-two weeks. On Earth that’s no problem, but given the oxygen levels here and the lack of neonatal specialist care, I’m not taking any risks. That means I’ve got him on antibiotics, because his immune system isn’t fully developed, and Webster’s rigging an oxygen tent from the reactive greenhouse shee
ting. I’m sorry it’s such crude medicine. But I don’t even have surfactant drugs.”

  “Has Actaeon?” But Lindsay knew it was a pointless question. Warships were equipped for trauma, clap and substance abuse. “I suppose not.”

  “He could do with some more milk, if you’re up to expressing some.”

  Not more tubes. He was too weak even to feed properly. She laid him down in the cot again with a breaking heart. Every instinct in her body said she should forget common sense and take him somewhere quiet to comfort and nurse him. But Hugel was a doctor, and knew better. And Lindsay was an officer, the ranking officer now that Shan was out of action.

  “I’ll get on with it,” she said.

  Hugel walked with her to the kitchen area. Lindsay didn’t need a spectator or company, but Hugel wasn’t accompanying her to be supportive.

  “I’ve asked to see Frankland but Josh Garrod almost threw me out,” she said. “Perhaps she’s worse than they’re letting on.”

  “Bennett says she really took one.”

  “Exactly. So if you’re in command now, can I ask you if we can evacuate? We’ve lost two people now. Enough.”

  “I think we’re going to do that anyway. But Shan isn’t dead, and she isn’t incapacitated.”

  “Well, maybe you can talk to her.”

  “Of course I will.” Now leave me alone. “Time to check up on Qureshi, I think.”

  Hugel looked as if she had taken the polite hint for the dismissal it actually was, and stiffened slightly.

  “Qureshi’s doing fine.” Hugel moved towards the door and rested her hand on the latch. “But if Bennett described Frankland’s injuries accurately, then she shouldn’t be alive, not with the level of care available here.”

  Lindsay resisted getting into a conversation. It was speculative. If Hugel was thinking of wess’har surgical superiority and how she might acquire it, she couldn’t have picked a worse time. Maybe she was like Rayat, making her last dangerous bid to wring some worthwhile results out of this mission.