“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.”