Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  Von Bayern nodded amiably, apparently unaffected by the fury radiating from the Prince like a furnace draft. “Of course, my lord Prince, our transport is standing by.” He gestured to a nearby grav-sled—a regular cargo carrier which had a pair of bench-seats bolted on and draped with fabric in colors approximating the Imperial eagle crest. Xochitl shook his head, now beyond words, and climbed aboard.

  As the grav-sled whined away, one of the corpsmen helped Helsdon out of the capsule, supporting his shoulder. The engineer looked ghastly, but was able to keep his head up as they loaded him onto a stretcher. The Joto-Heiso from the work crew was waiting with a flask, along with Juarez and four of the marines.

  “Welcome aboard, kyo. The Chu-sa says you’re straight to a spare cabin and twenty, thirty hours of sleep.” The engineer flashed a broken-toothed smile behind his white mustache, pressing the flask into Malcolm’s hands. “Here, this’ll set you right. She sent it down. A twenty-year malt uisge-beatha—like velvet!”

  Helsdon laid his head back on a pillow, puzzlement pushing aside his exhaustion for a moment. “Who—who sent this?”

  “Chu-sa Susan Koshō, Engineer.” Juarez patted him gently on the shoulder, and then motioned for the marines to escort him away. “Welcome aboard the Naniwa. The captain apologizes for keeping you in the can so long, but there wasn’t time to peel you out properly until now.”

  * * *

  All Gretchen could see was corridor roof, gleaming with overheads, and occasionally the superstructure of a hatchway as the grav-stretcher zipped along. A corpsman was jogging along beside her, though she could hear his voice only intermittently. Her left arm was throbbing with tremendous pain hidden behind a wall of meds, and now the rest of her had seemingly converted into an enormous ache. At least the bees are gone, she thought blearily. Her skin had settled down, which was a mercy. Whatever had happened when her hands had been on the corroded bronze block seemed to have faded, leaving only a faint golden tinge at the edges of her vision.

  The stretcher whisked through a double-wide hatchway, and she was suddenly enveloped by the smell of antiseptics, blood, and urine. A face appeared above her—a junior medical officer, his lean visage spotted with crimson, his eyes hollow with sixteen hours on watch. Despite his appearance, however, he flashed a cheerful smile and palpated her arm. His touch made everything whirl around her like a sudden tchindi and someone, somewhere, groaned aloud in terrible pain.

  “This temporary block is shot,” a voice said. “Load her up and knock her out. Back to room eight for her, with the old—”

  There wasn’t even a needle-prick, just sudden sleepiness and then … nothing at all.

  * * *

  The orderly guided the stretcher into the second base station in the assigned room, confirmed the med-interlocks were set and showing green on their little status panel, then covered Anderssen with a blanket and adjusted the pillow under her head. Given the possibility that the g-decking might fail if combat resumed, he strapped her down and lowered a protective glassite shroud from the ceiling. Then, given he was in the room, the medic raised a similar covering over the old Náhuatl man in the next bed and tested his retinal responsiveness with a hand-light.

  “Nothing,” muttered the orderly, shaking his head in dismay. “Facial pallor, weak and thready breath, heart arrhythmia … grandfather is in poor condition.” He charted the necessary notes with his stylus, then turned out the lights and closed the door behind him.

  Once the room was dark and empty, however, Green Hummingbird let out a long, slow breath, and then wiggled his fingers and toes. After a moment to let his body stabilize, the old man turned his head sideways, looking at Gretchen’s supine form in the next bed. His forehead creased with worry, wrinkles drawing up at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Deftly, he worked an arm free of the restraints, and then raised the shroud himself. The monitoring panel on the stretcher beeped questioningly, to which the nauallis responded by keying an override into the machine.

  With his bed showing nothing but green status lights, Hummingbird padded to Anderssen’s shroud, raised the cover, and then drifted his right hand over her face, forehead, shoulders, and then down the length of her body. He was careful not to touch her skin or the fabric of her shirt or trousers. Instead, eyes half-lidded, he seemed to be feeling for something perceptible only a centimeter or less from her body.

  “Hsss … that was near too much for you, child.” He frowned, green eyes dark with worry. His gnarled old hands had paused over her wrists, where there was a sensation of terrific heat. So, too, at her clavicles and the right side of her face. This was apparently unexpected, for Hummingbird drifted his hands away from each location and then back again several times.

  Still frowning, his lips tight with concern, the nauallis opened the stowage bin under the stretcher and drew out the parchment envelope holding the bronze-colored block from Gretchen’s jacket. Curious, he examined the device carefully—but could see no signs of change or transformation in the corroded metal. Shaking his head, he put everything back where he’d found it, closed Anderssen’s shroud, and then crawled back into his own bed. This time, before strapping himself down and closing the glassite cover, he made sure both earbugs were inserted and responding, then yawned mightily—activating his dropwire—and pressed a fingertip into the cavities beneath either side of his jaw, turning on his throatmike.

  Immediately, his earbugs filled with interesting chatter. As he lay motionless, his heart slowing, diagrams and images began to play out on the inside of his eyelids. One of his search dorei active in the v-network stitched through the fabric of the battle-cruiser was waiting with a video feed—complete with sound. Prince Xochitl had been shown into Chu-sa Koshō’s private quarters.

  * * *

  The Méxica lord stared around obstinately at the subdued colors and simple, even spartan furniture that Susan maintained in her suite of rooms. Koshō was sitting at her desk, the collar of her uniform undone and her jacket hung on the back of a chair which swiveled out from the wall. She seemed entirely unimpressed by his battered appearance and lank hair. He, in turn, could not help but see the Chu-sa was worn almost to the point of exhaustion. And that, somehow, she had aged during the past ten years, becoming a formidable-looking woman with more than a passing resemblance to her maternal grandmother.

  “I’m the ranking officer here,” Xochitl growled, trying to summon an authoritative snap in his voice.

  “Then you’ll be on the secondary bridge,” Koshō replied evenly, not even bothering to look up from her personal comp. “As befits the Gensui commanding the battle group. My apologies—we are not fitted with a flag bridge. Be aware, Tlatocapilli, that I will remain in command of my ship and all operational matters at all times.”

  “You will follow my orders!” Xochitl responded, outraged.

  “Only if they exhibit a shred of sense.” Susan turned, looking him up and down with a measuring eye. The Prince stiffened, not used to such judgmental scrutiny, or the sensation that he had been found wanting.

  “Right now,” Koshō continued, her voice harsh with exhaustion, “there is only one thing to do—get out of here as quickly as possible. We’re in no shape to deal with the Khaid, much less the powers which might dwell in this benighted sinkhole. My ship has been hammered up one side and down the other, our magazines are low, we’ve battle damage in every department and almost every section. Do you honestly think we can do anything here, other than blunder into another defensive system and make a quick exit to Mictlan?”

  Xochitl started to speak, and then paused, his attention drawn away, listening to some voice only he was privy to. Then, with a sharp, deep breath he stepped back and rubbed his brow fiercely. Beads of sweat glistened at his temples.

  “No,” the Prince said, having collected himself. “You’re right. Without our science teams and the support ships, we have no way…” He paused, seeming to look inward again. “Thrice-cursed Huss and his league of devils! I am a fool and
fool’s fool.” Xochitl glared at Susan, eyebrows drawn together as his whole face transformed into a furious mask. He ground a fist his palm. “Someone brought the Khaid down on us, didn’t they? The raiders haven’t been reported operating in this area before.”

  “No.” Koshō’s lips twitched and she clasped her hands. “Not in the last ten years of working the Rim. Someone was expecting you—Lord Prince, or someone like you—to come along.”

  “You make that title sound positively dirty,” Xochitl jested weakly, trying to summon even a spark of his usual ebullience. The anger had already faded from him, leaving only a pensive weariness. He groped for a chair, found a low-cut Nakashima fiddleback, and collapsed into the elegant seat. “How many men did you lose, Yakka?”

  “Nearly a hundred. I welcome the replacements you brought.”

  “Huh!” The Prince’s laugh—to his own ear—was a tired bark from an exhausted dog.

  “You still owe me ninety-three more.”

  * * *

  In the darkness of the medbay, Green Hummingbird frowned, watching the Prince and the captain stare at each other in weary silence. He blinked, switching the feed to another of his dorei infesting the shipnet.

  This v-cam showed the armored alien who’d come aboard with the Prince. The creature was cowering in the corner of a well-appointed cabin with its long tapering head hidden in his hands. A constant muttering wail issued forth from the helmet, which was loud enough for the room security camera to pick up and relay to the nauallis. The sounds were unintelligible, though the Méxica had a more than passing knowledge of the Hjo trade language used in Imperial space.

  What a pitiful creature, the old man thought, and subvocalized a series of commands into his throatmike. A pity the zhongdu didn’t send someone more … aware. Still, one uses what tools are to hand.

  * * *

  “How are we going to get out of here?” Xochitl paced back and forth across the bamboo-parquet flooring of the Chu-sa’s private office. His boots ground into the sealant layer protecting the light-grained panels, leaving tiny gritty black marks. “How did you navigate through the Barrier? Can you get us back out?”

  “Don’t you wonder,” Koshō said, in a musing tone, “if the Khaid knew our full strength when that pack made transit … or do they habitually hunt Imperial scouts with such numbers? It seems very odd their Kabil Rezei would go loping around in this wasteland with a fleet.”

  The Prince glared at her. “You are still just as annoying as in school.”

  Koshō shrugged, meeting his eyes with a calm, direct gaze. “They were hunting for you, Sayu. They jumped in hot, right on top of us in this cursed murk, and they came loaded for capital ships … so tell me this, is it safe to take my ship back into Imperial space with you aboard?” Her expression flattened. “Are you running from someone, Lord Prince? We’ve been out of comm contact for weeks—is your father dead? Is there some new Emperor on the Quetzal throne? One that finds you displeasing?”

  “What do—” Xochitl stopped, his expression suddenly frozen. “Yakka, that is a cold, cold thought.”

  “The Princes of the Méxica are notoriously cruel, my Lord. Particularly when they war upon one another.”

  “My father sent me himself,” Xochitl allowed confidently, but felt his jaw twitch as he gave the words life. Susan shook her head minutely in disbelief, her eyes filling with pity. Suddenly, he felt naive. “He … no one else knew my destination or intent. No one. We left Anáhuac under complete blackout and emissions control; my own ship, my own picked men. He … couldn’t send anyone else…” The Prince’s voice trailed off and his vision grew dark with growing fury.

  Now I know how sensei felt at Jagan, Susan thought, abruptly gripped by despair. The fate-cursed retainers of a doomed Prince, conveniently sent into a wilderness from which they will not return …

  “No,” Xochitl said slowly as he tried to rally his wits. “No, I will not believe that, not yet. Many hands touched the planning of the Mirror expedition—or the Khaid may have been snooping here already—anyone might have…” A thought occurred to him and his face lightened with relief. “The embassy! Someone had informed the—” He stopped abruptly, blinking as an overlay appeared in his field of vision.

  «Security Warning! Koshō, Susan, Chu-sa in command of IMN BC-268, does not hold ring-zero clearance!»

  Susan looked at him expectantly. Xochitl felt suddenly, terribly alone.

  I can’t tell her. She’s not cleared to know such things. How—

  “There is another explanation,” he said coldly, rising and going to the door. “Which is a privy matter. Expedite your repairs, Chu-sa. We will need to be underway as soon as possible. As soon as it is safe to move, begin looking for a way out of this … place. And send all current telemetry to the secondary bridge for my review.”

  Susan watched him leave with a frown. Now what did he almost say? What “embassy” was involved with this?

  Down in Medical, Hummingbird’s impassive face showed the faint ghost of a smile. In his other Eye, the z-suited alien had removed his helmet and was stuffing a long-snouted face with fried dumplings, a veritable buffet table of freshly delivered food laid out before him. Beside the table, a trolley cart had been provided, filled with gleaming glass bottles of liquor.

  Now our feet are on the proper road.

  THE WILFUL

  Hadeishi stepped onto the bridge—such as it was—of the little freighter, with a light heart. The search pattern laid down by De Molay had let them recover no less than five evacuation capsules from a variety of Imperial ships. In each case the capsule had been maneuvered into one of the cargo bays with the Wilful’s z-g loading cranes and clamped down. Gunner’s mate Tadohao and Nitto-hei Cajeme had grown quite proficient in the art of undogging the capsule hatches and sorting out the dazed, wounded, and confused men inside. Nearly every Sho-i and Thai-i they’d rescued had protested the command structure, complained vehemently, threatened mutiny, and finally settled down after a thorough reading of Mitsuharu’s papers.

  Hadeishi found it quite interesting—more so with each conversation—that none of the Fleet officers seemed to find it strange or unusual to be rescued by a tramp freighter commanded by a reserve Chu-sa in the uttermost wilderness. But then, he remembered, this was a Smoking Mirror operation, which means every man and woman of them came expecting the strange, the untoward and the downright peculiar to happen.

  Mitsuharu stepped to the captain’s chair, seeing that De Molay was dozing at her station, still wrapped in a variety of blankets and now wearing a hand-knit shepherd’s cap. He was about to sit when he noticed the shockchair had been reduced to nothing but the bare frame, without even the cracked leather seat he’d grown used to.

  “What have you done to my chair?” He gave the old woman a questioning look.

  “Hm? Oh, the cushions?” De Molay yawned elaborately, stretching both skinny old arms. “All of your lost children needed something for their heads; these floors are quite cold if you’ve not even a blanket.”

  “Yes … that is true.” He fingered the hexacarbon framing and eyed the recessed bolts in the seat.

  The old woman scratched at the half-healed wound on her cheek. “So—how is our new crew adjusting to their reduced circumstances?”

  “Some of the wounded won’t last, but their spirits are good.” Hadeishi sat, his good mood evaporating. “We’ll lose nearly ten, I think, if we can’t find better medical facilities for them.”

  De Molay nodded, watching him closely. “My apologies, but I cannot offer anything better.…”

  “That you—that we—are here has already given them a priceless gift.” Hadeishi’s eyes narrowed, thinking of the hidden compartments he knew existed downdeck. “Now, Sencho, is that really true? This is a ship of many surprises! I’ve not gone through every centimeter of the holds—have you a whole medbay down there? Along with this”—he indicated the hull with a wave of his hand—“very interesting shipskin and heat exchange
r?”

  In response, she frowned, jutting her chin forward. “So far the rescue campaign is going well, you would say?”

  Hadeishi started to nod, his expression brightening. “Very well! We need to kit up some more bunks, as you’ve said, and take a close inventory of our supplies, but—”

  “Chu-sa,” De Molay said sharply. “How many men and women have we taken aboard?”

  “Sixty,” he said after a moment of mentally reviewing the rosters from each capsule.

  “We are at one hundred twenty-five percent of environmental capacity, Chu-sa. The scrubbers are showing amber across the board, the sewage recycler is backed up, and we’re out of hot water. In fact, we’re going to be out of water period very soon because there is waste and leakage in these Knorr-class freighters and we’re pushing the system too hard! But that,” she concluded, her voice rising angrily, “won’t be an issue much longer because we are almost out of food.”

  Hadeishi sat back, scratching at his beard, which had begun to twist into an ungainly white-streaked tangle. Reluctantly, he walked mentally through the ship, comparing the numbers of compartments to the number of men aboard. These capsules are coming in with some emergency rations aboard, but this freighter didn’t come prepared for a search and rescue mission. We’re just over carrying capacity.

  “You’re right,” he said at last, brow furrowed in thought. “We still have capsules on the plot, but nowhere to bunk the survivors for more than a few hours. Where to put them…”

  “Success will defeat you if we do not find a way.” De Molay settled back into her blankets. “Or you will have to be satisfied with the souls you’ve already saved, and let the rest go.”

  “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t abandon them.”

  “Then what will you do?” The old woman’s exasperation was clear. “There is no room at the inn.”