Coasting to a halt at the end of the corridor, Hadeishi found the sectional door closed. Hefting the cutting tool, he checked the access panel. This time there was a 'locked' indicator, but the pressure and environment indicators for the far side were glowing green and amber.
Ah, he thought, the boat bay crews abandoned this section because of toxic air. One of the shuttle propellant tanks must have lost integrity and caused a fire. They've starved the fire out, but not bothered to restore atmosphere.
Trying to remember the fire control override codes for the internal doors, he poked experimentally at the access panel. After several tries the door glared red at him and locked out the panel. Hadeishi wanted desperately to scratch his beard, which was itchy with dried blood and bits of vomit, but a Fleet z-suit lacked that amenity.
He pushed up and peered through the glassite port into the access way. There too the main lights were out, but he caught a gleam of the emergency lights burning and a sense of motion. Encouraged, he flashed his suit lamps through the window, hoping to draw someone's attention. Then he waited.
A faceplate swam into view – a crewman with Engineering tabs on his shoulders and a spool of commwire on his shoulder – and an ensign started with surprise to see the haggard face of his captain. Hadeishi pointed at the access plate and made a circling motion. The Sho-i ko-hosei nodded violently and disappeared from view. The Chu-sa pressed himself against the bottom of the door. He felt vibration in the decking through his hands and the door levered up.
Hadeishi squirmed through, heard his comm wake to life with the chatter of crewmen working furiously at damage control and dragged himself up the wall to punch the close-code on the door. Smoke had spilled through with him, but not too much, he hoped. The Chu-sa turned to the boy, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile.
"Ship's status? How fast can you get me to Engineering?"
Twenty minutes later, Hadeishi swung along a guiderail into the main Engineering deck and stared around in tight-lipped concern at the wan faces of his crew and the rows of darkened comp displays. Only the stations devoted to the main drive coil and fusion reactors were showing the glow of active displays.
"What happened?" The Chu-sa kicked to the half-circle of panels associated with main comp.
Isoroku looked up, bald head gleaming in the light of Hadeishi's suit lamps. "The backbone network is infested with six or seven thousand kinds of attack viruses. We've got comm up in most of the ship via suit-to-suit relays and the hardline you followed up here. But everything else is still useless."
"Can you bring the main drives back on-line? We need to adjust orbit immediately."
The engineer nodded. "We can, but you won't have any navigational control from either the bridge or secondary command." A thick gloved finger stabbed at the single comp display still alive in the array. An endlessly mutating face was shining in the display, alternately leering, giggling and showing a sad expression. A dizzying array of ears, hats, tongues and noses changed with bewildering speed. "See this? This is what happens when you bring up a display."
"Main comp is infected?" Hadeishi tried to swallow, but his throat was dust dry. "That's impossible."
The bulky engineer grunted in agreement. "Main comp is fine, the computational cores are fine, archive and ready memory is all fine. But…" He tapped the panel accusingly, voice grating harshly. "The display pane interfaces, the comm nodes and the transmission linkages between the millions of subsystems on this barge are all wrecked by this kind of baka infiltrator. We're isolating systems, reflashing them and stitching them back into the network, but it's going to take a long time."
"Hours? Days?" Hadeishi stared around the Engineering deck with a cold gaze. His eyes lingered on three z-suited corpses tied down to the deck behind one of the work panels. "How bad have casualties been?"
Isoroku glanced over, then shook his head. "Damage control teams are still sorting through the wreckage – somehow we lost the entire area around your suite, the officer's mess and the forward galley – Yoyontzin reports everything up there is just twisted metal. All the hallways are clogged with wreckage."
"Again?" Hadeishi stared at the engineer in confusion. He was starting to feel numb. "From the laser impacts? Did we lose hull integrity forward of bulkhead nine?"
"No," Isoroku said, shrugging. "Some kind of secondary explosion. Nearly severed the data mains to the front quarter of the ship, but the conduit armor held – which does us no good, since every comp panel on the ship is useless." He made a spitting motion towards the evil face.
"Do we have replacement interface panels in stores?"
Isoroku bit the inside of his lip, thinking. "If they're not trashed by battle damage…"
"Isolate the sublight drive system, and rig a control panel just for the engines. Don't connect it to anything else. Will that let us regain maneuvering control?"
The engineer nodded. "We've been trying to clear the primary combat control backbone, but -"
"One little problem at a time," Hadeishi coughed, starting to drift away. Blood was leaking out of his mouth and making tiny crimson bubbles inside his face-plate. "How long until we have pervasive comm in the ship?"
Isoroku stared at the Chu-sa in horror. He seized the nearest crewman. "The captain needs medical attention right now. Get a work cart, get him on it and get him to medical! Someone, what's the status of the medical bay? Do they have air pressure?"
Crewmen scattered in all directions, including one who began chattering into the hardwired comm. Another brought Hadeishi back to the ring of comp panels. The Chu-sa batted feebly at the helping hands. "I'm fine, just have some splinters loose in my rib-cage. Someone has to relay telemetry from the outside to whoever is driving with this panel, so…" He paused, trying to clear his throat. "Are any of the bridge crew alive? Anyone with a pilot's cert?"
"I don't know." Isoroku felt panic start to churn in his stomach. "How bad is the orbit?"
"Not good," Hadeishi wheezed, clenching his teeth together. His medband was shrilling alarms inside his suit. He clenched his arms across his chest protectively. "Ah…! I seem to have exceeded some kind ofthreshold. You must stabilize our orbit quickly. Then you'll have time to fix everything else.
"Find a clean comp and panel, load fresh soft and get them into the hands of someone who knows how to steer. They'll need Navplot, which means guidance sensors have to be working." He smiled, face obscured by the drift of crimson. "Only tiny problems, Thai-i, taken one at a time. Small movements, my friend, small deliberate movements."
Hadeishi's medband tripped the last of its alert levels and flushed his system with knockmeout and a cellular stabilizer. The Chu-sa's eyes rolled up and his head fell loosely forward against the faceplate of his suit.
Isoroku cursed silently, then the work-cart was being wrangled into the work station and he and two of the Engineering deck crew were strapping the captain onto the cart, trying to be as gentle and as quick as possible.
Near Rural Highway Two-Fifteen> The Town of Chumene, Southeast of Takshila
A high-pitched wailing sound pierced the air, setting the hairs on the back of Gretchen's neck erect. The clatter of leathery hands on stiff-surfaced drums followed and then the tramping beat of hundreds of feet stamping on dusty ground. Malakar and Anderssen stepped out of the darkness at the edge of the village, faces lit by the hot glow of hundreds of torches and two enormous bonfires. The deep basso groan of bladder-horns joined the riot of sound. The gardener lifted her long snout, searching the furtive, twisting light for the proper street.
Gretchen watched the natives dancing with growing interest. A ring of elderly Jehanan – fairly dripping with flower petals, paper streamers and jangling charms – moved back, clearing the center of the street. Now they crouched at the edge of the light, long feet rising and falling in a steady, marching beat. A round dozen musicians were ensconced under a cloth awning festooned with statuettes and figurines and mandalas of flowers. One of the brittle-scales held
a long, metal instrument in withered hands. The firelight gleamed on silver strings and an ivory-yellow claw began to pluck, sending a plaintive, echoing sound winging up into the dark sky above.
All else fell silent, leaving the trembling notes alone on the dusty stage.
Then, at the edge of the light, the villagers parted silently, bowing and snuffling in the dirt, and the slim figure of an adolescent Jehanan female appeared, wreathed in veils of pale gold and green. She darted out, fine-boned feet quick on the ground, the clink and clash of precious copper bangles marking counterpoint to the humming drone of the stringed instrument. The girl danced sideways, bending and stretching, miming – Anderssen realized, watching the movements – someone plucking flower buds.
"This is Avaya, twilight's maidenhead," Malakar whispered, "and she is dancing in the fields of the coming sun, collecting the opened buds of the sacred Nem as they lie cool, still unturned by the touch of the Lord of Light."
Avaya spun past, wholly concentrated upon the unseen, and Gretchen caught a rustle of feet in grass and the smell of a dewy hillside, pregnant with pollen and perfume. The girl danced on, the single instrument slowly, subtly, joined by the hissing wail of the bladder-horns and hooting flutes. So too brightened the illumination in the dusty circle and Anderssen blinked, startled and delighted to see the waiting crowd, still hidden by the gossamer barrier between shadow and light, raising many paper lamps on long poles to hang over the street.
A horn rang out, a cold, clear note. The girl stumbled, spilled her invisible basket of petals and raised her head in alarm, long back curving gracefully to the east. A deep-voiced drum began to beat, the tripping sound of a hasty heart, of blood quickened by danger. Avaya dashed here and there, snatching up petals from the ground.
So perfect were the girl's movements that Gretchen clutched Malakar's bony, scaled shoulder for support. In the flickering, dim light, surrounded by such rich noise, by so many swaying Jehanan, she began to see – darting, indistinct, gleam-ingly real – the petals on the ground, the rustling stands of green plants, golden leaves, waxy flowers half-open to the sky. Such an overpowering aroma washed over her she felt faint. Rich, dark earth; the dew on a thousand flowers; a cool, cold sky shining deep blue-black overhead. A steady emerald brightness rising on the horizon.
"See, now the king is coming. Her time grows short…"
Malakar's voice broke Anderssen from the waking dream. Another corridor opened in the crowd and a forest of torches clustered there, held aloft in scaled hands. Even now, with so many lights, she could not see the faces of the celebrants. They were dim and indistinct, bound by shadow, but the lamps and sputtering, resin-drenched brands burned very bright.
A tall, powerfully built Jehanan male glided out of the darkness. His scales were golden, shimmering, flashing like mirrors. Well-muscled arms wielded a burning stave, a length of wood wrapped with pitch and resin. He sprang into the circle, whirling flame over his head. So swift was the movement the blurring stroke became a single burning disc, shining in the east.
Avaya fled, leaping and bounding – and Gretchen knew she fled down the hillside, springing rushing streams, weather-worn boulders, seeking always the safety of night behind beckoning hills – and the Sun-King gave chase. The crowd of faces, the soft outlines of the rooftops, the dusty street of a market town, all fled from Anderssen's perception and for a timeless moment, all she beheld was the long chase of the Lord of Light to reclaim the precious Nem from the hands of iridescent Avaya and his endless quest to bring her forth from bondage in the underworld.
A chorus of voices joined the winging sound of the instruments, calling back and forth in counterpoint to relate the pleading cries of the King, and the demure, evasive answers of the maid.
Malakar shook her shoulder gently, drawing the human back into the shelter of the crowd.
"We must go," the gardener whispered. "The tikikit do not tarry on their rounds."
Gretchen blinked, rubbed her face and followed – unseeing, half-blinded by clinging smoke – as they passed down a narrow lane and a set of broad steps. The old Jehanan stopped, dipping her claws into a stone trough.
"Here," the gardener said, raising cupped hands. "Clear your eyes."
Anderssen splashed shockingly cold water on her face, shivered and wiped her nose. The glorious visions of the sun racing across the hills of a dry, green world faded. Everything was dark and close again, pregnant with the smell of cinnamon.
"Thank you. I was…overcome."
The Jehanan's eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the lighted windows of the nearest house. "You impress me, asuchau. You were singing, as the eldest do, remembering fragments of the lost… Most of those around us did not understand the words, but some did. They were becoming alarmed, once they realized who you were and had no business knowing such things."
"Singing?" Gretchen shook her head vehemently. "I can't sing."
"Certainly," Malakar said, amused. "Your throat and pitiful snout are not suited for our songs, of course. I see why you are shy – but still, a worthy effort."
"I was not singing," Anderssen said sharply, feeling intense irritation. "You must have been imagining things."
"Hoooo…" The gardener tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps."
"Where is this tikikit?" Gretchen said, relieved the creature did not pursue the matter. Her throat felt a little raw. She cupped her hands and drank from the trough, which flowed silently with cold spring water. The damp, fecund odor of moss filled her nostrils.
"It will come soon." Malakar continued on down the steps, which led into a grove of ancient trees. Forgetting to turn on her flashlight, Gretchen hurried after, not wishing to be left alone in the humid darkness. With the sun passed away behind the seventeen hills to the west, the night air was turning cold.
The path narrowed, winding among close-set trees, and then ended in a rutted track. A lamp-post stood beside the road, holding a paper lantern. Malakar stood in a circle of light cast by the dim yellow flame. In the wan radiance, the old Jehanan looked particularly tired, her scales glowing the color of brass. Gretchen slowed, boots sinking into soft, springy ground, and her eyes were drawn to the trees, to the moss covering their roots and the half-seen shape of a tiny stone house set between two enormous, gnarled trunks.
Dim outlines of seated figures were visible inside the open door. Anderssen felt a prickling chill; haphazard thoughts tickling the back of her mind. Spirits of forest and glade, watchers over traveling folk. Guardians to keep the foul denizens of the night at bay…the hatchet-handed corpse, the weeping woman, swarms of ciuateteo seeking warm blood…
"Do we have to wait here?" Anderssen pulled her jacket tight, shuffling forward. "This is an uneasy place… Don't your people know crossroads areunlucky, particularly at night?"
Malakar lifted her snout and blew disdainfully through her nostrils. "Where are your quick, knife-sharp thoughts now, asuchau? You're pale as new-laid shell. Did your grandmother feed you tales of ghosts and spirits with your growing milk?"
"I'm not comfortable here," Gretchen admitted, squatting down next to the old Jehanan. In the colorless lamplight, the muddy pools of water in the rutted road shimmered. Short-bladed grass growing at the verge cast long, sharp shadows. Gretchen shivered a little, feeling the eyes of the statue in the little house boring into the back of her neck. "Not comfortable at all."
The gardener made a low, hooting sound, little more than a rumble in the back of her throat. "Fear not – this is only a waiting place. Many have waited here before, many will wait here again. The tikikit will come soon and bear us south. Just sit a little, rest your weary feet. Feel the quiet under the trees, in the long branches…"
Anderssen tried, but squatting beside Malakar made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so she moved to the side, searching for someplace dry to sit. After a few moments of crawling in the low grass, she came upon a flattish rock and sighed with relief. Now she could sit properly. The gardener had been right about
the silence – the only sounds were dew slowly dripping from overhanging boughs and the distant, faint murmur of the festival.
Gretchen realized she was tired and sore. Her legs hurt from running and walking and climbing stairs for days on end. Despite the complaints of her body, she didn't feel hungry, so she laid her head on her forearms and closed her eyes.
Anderssen woke abruptly, roused by the sound of someone singing in a queer, warbling voice, sending hooting, trilling calls wandering among the trees. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the light and found Malakar staring at her with a rapt expression, long head tilted to one side.
"Do not stop," the Jehanan begged. "The wholeness of H'єnd and the Diamond-Eye has been lost to all memory!"
"What are you talking about?" Nervous, Gretchen unfolded herself from the ground, legs numb and stared around at the dark trees and the road and the lamp-post with wide eyes. "Where are we? Where are the fire-tower and the plain of salt? The city of glass?"
"You were singing of them, but who knows where they lie?" Malakar bent her long snout to the ground. "Your voice is strange – hollow and low and soft – yet still I could make out the words…"
Anderssen pressed her palms against her eyes, feeling the edges of a dream fade away into darkness. Her throat hurt. She sipped some water from a flask, and then forced her numb, clumsy fingers to dig out a threesquare. Gagging, she managed half of the cold goo in the tube.
"Are you hungry?" Gretchen offered Malakar the rest of the threesquare. "This is human food, but you might be able to metabolize the proteins. It's spiced chicken."
The gardener sidled up, tail twitching and sniffed the tube. "Che-keen smells like sewage," Malakar declared, nostril flaps tightening. "I will wait."
Unable to finish, Anderssen nodded in commiseration and stuffed the threesquare back into her pocket. She rubbed her throat. "You heard me…singing?"
House of Reeds ittotss-2 Page 41
