by Wil McCarthy
Earlier, Malye had demanded a fully functional, Sirian-style flatscreen from Wende, claiming she needed it for recordkeeping in her investigation, which certainly was true. Wende seemed to have a better grip on things now, though, and Malye had sensed that same easy agreement, that same kind of wistfulness. This is given in friendship, Wende had seemed to say, though it be my last favor to you.
Well, what of it? What could Malye do differently, knowing this? Not much. She held the flatscreen up now for Chain to see, and she asked him, “Is there a chance we are being monitored?”
“There is a certainty,” he replied absently, “but the eavesdroppers will receive false data. Whether they will know it to be false, I cannot say.”
“But they can't see and hear us now?”
“No.”
She nodded, and touched symbols on the screen, switching its display. She laid it flat on the table, then, and slid it across to him. “This is the message I'd like you to send. And there's more; I need some manufactured goods. Nothing massive, but some of it is complex. I think the need is rather urgent. How soon could you get them to us?”
He frowned. “What is it you require?”
“Touch the screen,” she said.
He did so, and then leaned closer to study the list and explanations which had replaced Malye's message text. Still frowning, he raised his copper eyes back up to her face.
“I see what you intend,” he said, “but I do not comprehend your rationale. How can this escape benefit you? Why should we assist?”
“If we succeed,” she told him, “it will go well for you. If we fail, who will know what role you played? By all means, grovel and fawn before our mutual enemies, because that will go well for you if my people are killed. But if you bring me these things, then either outcome is to your benefit. Do you see?”
He thought for a moment, then took out an azure jewel and touched it to the side of his head. His face slackened briefly, then came once more to life. He slipped the jewel back into his sleeve pocket. “Your proposal has been accepted. I will say, Madam, that you surprise us. Our culture cannot closely resemble your own, and yet you endure among us.”
“Thank you,” she said, nodding, accepting the compliment in the intended spirit. “Surviving in lethal environments is a knack we humans perfected long ago. You would do well to remember your roots.”
“There is an additional datum I wish to share,” he said, dropping his voice. “Two names: Shim and Vent of Striders ring. I have no authorization to speak of this, but harm toward you is imminent, and I felt you should know.”
“I never heard it from you,” Malye said. “Ialah, I think my investigating days are over anyway. Justice is patient, and we need to move quickly if this is going to happen at all.”
“Indeed,” Chain said, and rose from the chair.
“See you again sometime,” she said, holding out a hand.
He stared at it uncomprehendingly, and said, “I find that very unlikely.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
219::18
HOLDERS FASTNESS, GATE SYSTEM:
CONTINUITY 5218, YEAR OF THE DRAGON
“Waiting is what makes it hard,” Vere Sergeivne said to Konstant. “For all of us, yes; you needn't take it out on Malye like that. You shouldn't take it out on her.”
“No?” Konstant said. He looked across the dayroom at her, his eyes slitted at first and then relaxing. “Well, I suppose not, but I'm very unhappy with this plan. If I could think of a better one... Well,” he turned his gaze on Malye, and his nervous energy was a bright, sharp reek in the air. “the moment I think of a better plan, you'll know it.”
“I'll be waiting,” Malye said. She was fidgeting a little, herself.
It was night shift, and ordinarily they'd all be asleep by now, but nobody seemed tired, and in fact they'd been going on like this for hours, bickering lightly, finding fault without finding solutions. Nothing to do but wait, really, and as Vere had pointed out, waiting was not a skill that came without practice. But Malye's children, behaving with uncharacteristic patience, served as an example to all; she'd told them to amuse themselves quietly, and thus far they had done a commendable job.
They were playing Viktor's finger game, and she saw that Sasha had joined them at some point. They were all giggling together, nervous but still managing somehow to enjoy themselves, and in a way it felt as if Viktor, with his durable enthusiasm, was with them still. She wondered who was winning.
Svetlane Antoneve, who was curled up with Konstant on one of the room's many gray couches, stroked the side of his face with mingled gentleness and reproach. “At least, darling,” she said in her deep, almost scratchy voice. “we'll be getting out of here. That's all we've wanted all along, our freedom. I'm not thrilled about breathing masks—I never have been!—but we've all agreed it's the only way. And it is, the only way.”
“Yes, well,” Konstant grumbled.
And then, finally, without warning, a Gatean Worker stepped through the outer door's membrane, with a huge, burgundy-clad Drone—one of Malye's guards—trailing behind him. “Pierce,” the Drone's name was. The friendly one, who once had said three words to Malye for no reason at all. The Worker was not familiar, but she'd learned that the patterns of blue-green hair sprouting from Gatean scalps were as distinct as fingerprints, though on a clan rather than an individual level. This one came unmistakably from Talkers ring, a fact which was confirmed by the large bundles he carried under each arm, and under whose weight he staggered.
“Hello!” Malye called out, hopping off her couch.
“Madam,” Pierce said, “this Worker professes a delivery for you.”
“Yes, we've been expecting it,” she told him. She turned to the Worker. “Thank you, citizen, this will be very helpful. Is everything...going well?”
“I do not know what you mean,” the Worker said, dropping the bundles unceremoniously to the floor. “I am hurried. Is our business complete?”
“I suppose so, yes. Thanks once again.”
The Worker did not reply, but turned and exited. Pierce stood looking at the assembled refugees for a moment, like a father taking notice of his children's suspicious behavior. But not like a father, no, for there was no love in him, nor even respect. Had Malye forgotten that look so quickly? The look of a greenbar about to break up a juvenile gathering. But Pierce held there for only a few moments and then, with a warning glance in Malye's direction, withdrew from the room.
Everyone dove for the piles at once, sorting through them, looking for the size tags. Malye held back, but she understood the feeling; they had nothing of their own here, so that every time a Gatean brought something other than food, the gift was magnified all out of proportion. The refugees' material wealth had just increased fourfold or better. Soon, everyone was trying on the masks, holding the garments in front of them, double-checking the size, looking for rips or flaws. There appeared to be none; when called upon, these Gateans could do good work, and very quickly.
Finally, Malye took up the two remaining bundles, and checked over the smaller one as the others were doing, and then the larger one, which was unique, its contents only marginally familiar. A paint stick, some oxygen bottles, a climbing platform... When she'd parceled these items out and finished inspecting her own equipment she looked up and saw, to her surprise, that all eyes were on her. Even Konstant was looking to her as if for guidance, for encouragement, as if she knew anything more than he did, as if he could draw strength from her in some ill-defined way. Well, perhaps he could.
She focused her attention on Vadim and Elle, and gave them a smile like she hadn't given anyone in thousands of years. They came to her, and she tousled their hair and hugged them. “I'm very proud of you both. This has been a hard time, and some children would have made it harder still by refusing to cope with it. But you both have been very brave, and I know you'll be brave tonight, as well. This time, I don't have a rescue ball to stuff you into!”
“Thank you
, Mother. You have our trust,” Vadim said, and Malye thought it was probably the most heartfelt compliment she'd ever received.
She turned her attention to the others. “You all know the plan. Head straight for the interface station. Remember to stay together, and look out for each other. We've been told that harm is imminent, and I fully believe it. What we're about to do is dangerous and difficult, but it isn't something we can practice, and we can't afford to bungle it. Most importantly, remember to stay calm.”
She stopped, but they still seemed to expect something of her. Well damn it, she was no military woman. She'd led a few arrest teams in her day, but what a very different thing that was!
“Uh,” she said, reaching for the protocols in a disused corner of her mind, “are there any questions?”
There weren't.
“All right then. Take a deep breath, and follow me.”
She made a final quick inspection of Elle's repaired foot, and then rose and grabbed one of her little hands, and one of Vadim's. She moved to the door membrane, paused a minute to let everyone line up behind her, and stepped through.
Pierce and Frame, who stood on the other side with their backs to the wall, turned and looked at her with obvious surprise.
“What—” Pierce started to say. Then he saw the children, and the others filing out behind her, and his surprise gave way to doubt.
“We have an appointment at the interface station,” Malye said without slowing down for them. “It's very important for the investigation.”
The Drones hurried to catch up with her, an easy enough task given the length of their stride. “This is not authorized,” Pierce said to her. “We have no instructions regarding this.”
“Don't you?” Malye said, and kept walking.
The Drones were not stupid, they knew something of fundamental importance was happening right in front of them, but they had no idea what to do about it. Drones were quick, she'd found, where the threats were clear and the solutions involved smashing or pounding on something. And they were clever interpreters of orders, bending them to suit whatever mood or desire happened to strike, and in this respect, they were very much like children. But when the instructions were absent or ambiguous or in conflict, when the true desires of their Queens were not known and could not be guessed, the Drones froze up, terrified of making the wrong decision.
It was a trait Malye had been counting on, for together Pierce and Frame could easily gather up the refugees and return them forcibly to the dayroom, or even individual quarters. As it was, it wouldn't be long before the two called up for some advice. Indeed, they were already taking out comp jewels, already pressing them through layers of security fog to kiss smooth, gray foreheads.
Malye took advantage of the distraction to quicken her pace, rushing down the twisting corridor now, dragging the children along and dodging the occasional Gateans who got in their way. Following the red stripe to its inevitable destination. A quick look over her shoulder confirmed that everyone was right behind her. Their colors sang, the breath whooshing in and out of them in near-visible whorls.
She caught a glimpse of the Drones, now in motion once more, now striding forward purposefully, grim expressions on their faces. “You must stop this!” Pierce called out. “Immediately, you must submit yourselves to me. Stop!”
“Run!” Malye said to the refugees, and promptly followed her own instructions. Not that the humans could hope to outrun Gatean Drones, but the distance was only a little farther now, a hundred or two hundred meters at most, and much of that downhill. Indeed, she thought she saw the red stripe's end up ahead, just around that far bend in the corridor.
“STOP!' Pierce boomed. He had almost caught up with Konstant, who was last in line, and Frame was coming along right behind.
Malye's legs slammed and jarred with each impact, the high gravity driving twice her normal weight down upon them. It was less awkward than carrying another person, but no less difficult for that. The weight of the children half-dragging behind her threatened to tear her arms. But up ahead now, she could definitely see the interface station. Another group of Gateans stood outside it, a Queen and Worker and Dog. It was Wende, she saw, and the remains of what once had been her six.
“Wende!” Malye called out, gasping now. “Wende! Stop these Drones, I need to talk to you!”
She slowed her pace. She had to. Behind her, Pierce had seized a struggling Konstant and lifted him off the floor. Half a stride in front, Svetlane Antoneve was in the hands of the other Drone.
“Release them,” Malye huffed. Still moving forward, she turned back to Wende. “Wende, make him release them! We have to talk, urgently. We have to talk!”
Musical tones cut the air, a shouted exchange in Waister.
“Wende!” her voice aggrieved, reproachful.
“You will approach,” the Gatean Queen said, her voice commanding but not unkind. She spoke as if Malye had proved an embarrassment after all, despite weeks of promising behavior, and would now have to be...what? Punished? Incarcerated?
“Wende, call off the Drones. This is important.”
“It has been done. The Drones are called off.”
Malye turned to see Konstant and Svetya released, to see all the refugees streaming in behind her one by one, puffing and sweating and groaning.
“This activity is inappropriate,” Wende said impatiently. “What communication do you desire?”
“I...I...” Malye was still panting, still hadn't caught her breath. Probably it would be a few minutes before she did, and really, she didn't have a few minutes. Instead, she took out the orange ink stick Talkers ring had created for her, the stick which did not contain orange ink at all, but a special solvent she had heard about from one of the Workers she'd questioned.
Wende frowned at the ink stick, clearly displeased. “This is what?” she demanded.
Having secured the release of Vere and Konstant, Malye had concluded her business with Wende, and with Gatean society in general. So rather than explaining, Malye simply demonstrated the stick's purpose by uncapping it and drawing it sharply across the interface station's door membrane. Where the solvent touched, the membrane shrank aside and opened. Instantly, a long crescent-shaped hole appeared across it, and it quickly spread, the membrane parting, dissolving. Within a second, the hexagonal doorway stood completely uncovered.
Foul air swirled out of it. The Gateans shrank back.
Malye shouted: “Masks!” and quickly fumbled for her own, spreading it and pulling it down over her face as her eyes and nasal passages began to sting. The mouthpiece shoved its way between her lips, between her teeth, and for a moment she gagged breathlessly before it gave her the air she demanded. Her view began to fog slightly as the mask sealed in place, smelling of rubber in her nose.
Next she grabbed Elle, made sure her mask got seated correctly. Vadim seemed to have done all right on his own.
And still the Gateans shrank away.
Malye had no access to weapons, no way to penetrate the Gateans' security fog. It would be impossible, she'd been told, for her to control a fog of her own, and really, what else was there to defend with? Except the air. Security fog was almost entirely empty space, and could no more hold air molecules in, or out, than a strainer could hold water.
The Waister air, as toxic to Gateans as to humans, would therefore serve as a buffer between the refugees and those who might oppose their escape. Please, Ialah, let the Waisters do their part! Meet us at the spin axis, she'd told them. Pluck us from this deadly world. Weightless, they could hold out there as long as necessary.
She stepped through the open doorway, into the slightly hazy chamber beyond. Konstant never had arranged another chat with the Waisters; it turned out their ship had already pulled away from Holders Fastness, and anyway the Gateans' self-absorption had put repair of the interface station at rather a low priority. The chairs were still toppled and scattered, the walls and floor and ceiling still stained with dried blood, which for s
ome reason had faded to a glossy black. What chemicals hung suspended in this air, she wondered? What exactly did they do? Well, her skin still felt all right, and hopefully they wouldn't be in here very long anyway.
With an overhand gesture, she invited the others to follow her through. Meanwhile, she tried not to think of what had happened here so recently, tried not to think at all as she stepped over a single overturned chair on her way to the glass partition that had once separated Waister from human. The glass was webbed with cracks, now, and one corner of it had gone white and pitted. Had the rogue surgical fog tried to burrow through there?
Well, it was Malye who would burrow through it now. She hit the whitened spot with her ink stick, rubbing it on hard, and then traced a line all around the edges of the triangular partition, and as high as she could reach along the top, and then for good measure she made a wide X across the center of the glass as well. The solvent wouldn't actually damage the glass, as she understood it, but it would get in between the molecules somehow and render the whole thing brittle, at least for a little while. Well, a little while was all they needed; she gestured to Nikolai Ilyovot, who picked up a chair and smashed it hard against the partition, which shattered easily, not so much breaking as turning to powder at the impact. The granules rained down together like a glittery-white curtain cut from its moorings, falling quickly in the high gravity, and the chair flew through and bounced against the angled walls before coming to rest.
Age had done little to wear down Nik's hard, construction worker's body. Which was good, because they needed it still.
Malye checked her people over once more, making sure no one was choking or bleeding into their masks, and then nodded her approval and turned toward the partition's empty frame and stepped across. Another two paces carried her past the bizarre couches on which the Waisters had lain, to the white membrane door on one of the two walls. Without ceremony she penetrated it, stepping through to another hexagonal corridor on the far side. This one, though, was bright red inside, the diaphanous light spheres hovering along the ceiling glowing the ruby color of fresh blood. The walls were probably still white, though it was hard to tell. In any case, they had markings all over them, orange and black chevrons and stripes, and messages printed large in a language she didn't recognize, though the characters were clearly from some human alphabet or other. Farther ahead, perhaps a hundred meters down the hallway, she could see another door membrane, glowing red in the warning lights.
