The last of the officers and ratings who’d ridden through the Pinhole had crawled off to their bunks by the time Thai-i Goroemon managed to reach Command. Kosho was still in her shockchair, reviewing the telemetry captured by shipnet during their passage, looking for somewhere to hide her battered ship.
“ Chu-sa? Holloway- tzin said you needed me to stand officer of the watch?”
“I do, Thai-i. I am very glad you survived. Can you handle another eight hours awake?”
Goro shrugged, broad shoulders stretching the gel of her z-suit. “Hard to sleep with all the racket, kyo -but we didn’t get hit too hard down in the Backbone. Two magazine conveyors went down due to jams, but nothing punched past into the inner hull where we were.”
The lieutenant rarely stood a Command watch, though she was technically fifth on the roster. Her usual duty station was in the munitions roundhouse controlling the network of high-speed magnetic railways threading between the primary and secondary hulls of the battle-cruiser. The Naniwa ’s main magazines were spaced along the shipcore itself, as far from hostile fire as possible, while a network of secondary-or “ready”-depots served each hard-point, launch-rail, or gun-pit. Managing the Backbone ammunition network was third in complexity among the ship’s systems, behind the engines and shipskin.
“How soon will we be reloaded?” Susan asked, frustrated with herself that she hadn’t already checked in with logistics.
“Another hour, kyo, and we’ll have all the conveyors back in operation,” Goro replied. “ Kikan-cho Hennig’s men have both of the jammed ones torn apart right now. He said there’s some fabrication problem with the pass-along sensors, so they’re getting pulled, hand-tested, and replaced as needed.”
“Better than I expected.” Kosho was pleased. For a ship so fresh from the yards, the Naniwa had experienced very few outright component failures. “What I need you to do, Thai-i, is-”
She turned to the navigational plot shipnet had pieced together from data recorded during their passage. Oddly, the changes made to the navigational interfaces-and to the threatwell and other Command systems-when Anderssen had taken them over, had all reverted to their Fleet-standard configurations. Even the massive rush of topology information which had allowed Susan to navigate through the Pinhole had purged itself. Only second-by-second Command camera images of the threatwell remained, but from them shipnet had reverse-engineered a model of their exit point and the surrounding area.
“-find us a place to lie up while all immediate repairs are completed. We’ve moved into a peculiar area of space-one without charts, and which may obey different physical laws than we’re used to-so I don’t want to rush about until we’ve laid down a tight nav plot. But here”-Kosho indicated a convoluted set of folds in the nearest dust clouds-“is a region free of the Barrier threads, and excited and dense enough we may be masked from passive sensors if someone comes along, banging on the temple-wall with a stick. Drop a remote to watch the Pinhole for us, and then move the Naniwa in there and go to zero-v. The engines need maintenance as well-we’ve taken enough dings, dents, and outright punctures to warrant a thorough inspection.”
“ Hai, kyo.” Goro covered a yawn with her salute and settled herself gingerly in the command chair.
Susan looked around the bridge one last time, saw that Anderssen had already been taken away, nodded to herself, and strode off to find her own cabin.
A monofilament saw shrieked, cutting away at the airlock on a badly battered evac capsule. Two burly engineers, their combat armor awash in a flood of sparks, were sawing away the last of the hinges holding the hatch closed. The portal itself was badly scarred and had been slightly twisted in the framing socket by some massive impact. The evac capsule had fared no better-carbon-scoring had turned nearly the entire surface black and the view ports were milky with tiny fissures. Another crew of engineers were dragging away a couple hundred meters of high-v cargo netting-the net Thai-i Holloway had arranged to snatch up the capsule at speed, while the Naniwa barreled past in the Pinhole-though its landing in boat-bay one had been… rougher… than the navigator intended.
“Clear!” barked the Joto-Heiso bossing the team of engineers. He stepped back, swinging the saw up onto his shoulder. Hot hexacarbon fragments littered the deck, filling the air of the cargo bay with thick spirals of smoke. “Get ’er open.”
The hatch squealed as pry bars dug in around the periphery, then popped free with a ting! Four of the Joto-hei on hand seized hold with magnetic grapples and wrestled the enormously heavy block of battle-steel, hexacarbon, and glassite onto a waiting grav-sled. As soon as the portal was removed, there was movement inside the capsule and two battered-looking Jaguar Knights emerged, shipguns at the ready. The Joto-Heiso stood his ground, unsuccessfully hiding a sneer behind a thick walruslike mustache. “Muddies,” he muttered under his breath to the engineers standing behind him.
“Xochitl- tecuhtzintli, welcome.” Heisocho Von Bayern was waiting for the next man to emerge. Prince Xochitl stamped out, his armor streaked with vomit and stippled with fresh dents. The Mexica lord’s face-his helmet was now canted back-was glacial with fury, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. One of his high, chiseled cheekbones had acquired a dark, purpling bruise. The Diplomatic Service warrant officer bowed appropriately, and then saluted sharply. “ Gensui on deck,” he barked.
A dozen meters back, Socho Juarez and the full remaining complement of marines aboard the battle-cruiser stamped their right feet in unison, presented arms-they’d scrambled to unpack their Macana assault rifles-and then held rigid while the cruiser’s piper wailed through the Imperial March.
Xochitl stared at the welcoming committee, his expression congealing into something very much like icy mud. Nothing about the reception was in the least irregular, though rousting out a piper for the March was generally falling from fashion. Von Bayern offered the Prince a gracious smile, hands clasped behind his back, until the drone of the bagpipes had ceased.
“My lord, I hope you will accept our apologies for detaining you and your crew within your evac capsule during transit. Your physical safety is of tremendous concern to Chu-sa Kosho. And… here are the medics.”
A pair of corpsmen had arrived with orderlies and stretchers. They immediately climbed in through the mangled airlock to help out the men still inside the capsule. The first to emerge was the hulking, seven-foot-high shape of the alien, in its unfamiliar armor. The marines and engineers stiffened, hands going to personal weapons. The creature looked around; head tilted back a little, and then saw the Prince. Xochitl looked back to the warrant officer.
“Take me to the Chu-sa immediately. Quarters for my men can wait. I will not. This one”-he pointed to Sahane-“send to whatever cabin is reserved for me. I will take something else, anything else.”
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 Kosho, 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 Nahuatl 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 Kosho’s private quarters.
The Mexica lord stared around obstinately at the subdued colors and simple, even spartan furniture that Susan maintained in her suite of rooms. Kosho 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,” Kosho 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,” Kosho 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.” Kosho’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 Mexica 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,” Kosho 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.”
Kosho 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 Mexica 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 Anahuac 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! Kosho, 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.