Karam nodded. “I agree. Sir. That’s probably SOP whenever flesh-and-fluid critters of any type decide to send a raiding team down to a planet. Been on a few of those myself. But we shouldn’t be making any easy assumptions about Puller’s ability to survive the maneuver you’re suggesting. Those belly welds won’t hold, and we’ll be so far into the descent when we reach the farside that I’m going to have to redline the power plants and engines to keep us from falling like a brick. Except that I wouldn’t bet a counterfeit uni on how long any of those systems will last, given our wounded coolant system. Which is all a bit of a problem, since we need to get halfway around this damn planet before landing, and somehow get you and the rest of our ground-pounders into the fight. Regarding which: on what prepared landing strip would you like me to deposit you, sir?”
Bannor shook his head. “That’s not how it’s going to go, Flight Officer — and watch your sass. You are not landing to deploy us. Instead, you will maintain altitude, which should make it easier for you to maintain speed. At least until we’re over the drop zone.”
Karam’s jaw sagged. “‘Drop zone?’ Are you mad — sir?”
Bannor shook his head. “No; desperate. Look, Karam, we have a grand total of one operational option that gets us into the fight when, and where, we need to be. The five of us grunts do a HALO drop—”
“A HALO drop? Bann — sir, in order to keep this hull airborne that long, I’m probably going to have to run in sprint mode.”
Lymbery went pale. “The engines and the coolant lines will never take that. Not now.”
“Will they suffer catastrophic failure?”
Lymbery frowned. “Well, no — probably not.”
“Then I will trust our flight officer, ably assisted by you, Mr. Lymbery, to land this stricken bird after we deploy.”
Karam shook his head. “Land where? And deploy at — well, at way too high a speed. Bannor, this is suicide.”
Rulaine leaned back, folded his arms. “The odds are that three or four of us will land and remain combat effective. The alternative is to boost away from this planet and be destroyed while our friends are hunted down like rabbits by an enemy strike team.” He stared at them all.
Karam looked away, mumbled, “Well, when you put it that way—”
Sleeman stared up at Rulaine, her eyes bright, sharp. “Okay, Major; I’m in. How do I help?”
Her bravery melted the last hints of reluctance on the faces of the other two, and Bannor thought, You just did help me, Miss Sleeman. More than you know.
* * *
Caine tried to eat another bite of the food proffered to him by one of the Slaasriithi who specialized in harvesting and tending the environment: the pastorae. But Riordan’s shortness of breath made him susceptible to nausea when he tried to eat or drink anything substantial.
Besides, while the food wasn’t exactly bad, it was very strange. The Slaasriithi seemed to have modest nest-raiding privileges with a variety of species: eggs were always on the menu as the protein component. That, and a kind of sardine paste mixed with something that tasted like peppery pickled plums, had started out as the party’s favorite, but soon became cloying. It was a strong, wholly unfamiliar taste and one for which the human palate, and stomach, seemed to have limited toleration.
The easiest foodstuff was a standing tuber that, when boiled, fell into strands not unlike spaghetti squash. It was mild and, if uninteresting, was utterly agreeable to the human stomach. But today, even the smell of that bland dish brought on a wave of queasiness, followed by concerned looks from what Riordan had come to think of as the Three Almost-Wise Slaasriithi: W’th’vaathi, Unsymaajh, and Thnessfiirm.
Seeing Caine’s distress, W’th’vaathi pulled her water-strider alongside his as they began making for the shore. “We are concerned for your health, Caine Riordan. We were unaware that this malady would affect you so severely. If you did not have a filter mask, it might be conceivable. But never having had human visitors to Disparity, we could not anticipate, and still cannot explain, the severity of your affliction.”
Caine looked downriver. “Nothing to worry about. I’m sure we’ll get to the tower in time.” Since the Slaasriithi had joined them four days ago, the group had closed the distance to the Silver Tower by more than two hundred kilometers, which had required about three hundred kilometers of actual travel. W’th’vaathi estimated that their journey would take another two days, which meant that this gleaming edifice was much, much larger than the humans had originally conjectured.
“We are making excellent speed,” agreed Thnessfiirm, “but within the hour, we will reach a section of the river where the shore drops off sharply to a very deep bottom. We will need to move by boat from that point on.”
“You have boats?”
“Simple ones with sails. We have them secreted at forty-kilometer intervals from this point onward.”
“So won’t our travel be faster, then?”
“For some of us, yes. But we have only one boat hidden in each riverside cache, and none of them are large. Most of the party must remain with the subtaxae and water-striders as they make a circuitous detour. This concerns us, since you have insisted upon personally ensuring the security of your entire group.” Thnessfiirm’s tendrils writhed fitfully. “That will no longer be possible.”
Nice to tell me about this now. “The water-striders are endangered if they enter this deeper part of the river?”
“No, but because of the depth, they must travel submerged.” Thnessfiirm’s sensor-cluster-head wobbled meaningfully in the direction of two of the other water-striders with riders perched upon their backs. “Clearly, that would not be suitable for you.”
Clearly. “Then I suppose I must—”
Thnessfiirm’s neck snapped rigidly erect; so had W’th’vaathi’s. Unsymaajh, whose water-strider had already deposited his passengers on the shore, was not in sight. The rest of the Slaasriithi ceased whatever they were doing, gazed skyward slowly, uncertainly.
Caine frowned. “What is—?”
But Thnessfiirm was grabbing handfuls of the water-strider’s pelt and pulling it in the direction of the shore. “Caine Riordan, we must hide.”
“Why?”
“Sporefall. The defense spheres have sent a warning packet that caused the spore layers above us to rain — well, sleet — down warning microbes.”
The other humans on the strider with him — Xue, Salunke, and Eid — sat upright. Salunke unslung a rifle; technically, it was her watch.
“Hiding will not help us, or you,” Caine started to explain.
“Perhaps, but being trapped in the middle of the river is not how we should face this threat.”
Well, there was no arguing that. As the water-striders made their way up the bank in close formation, Riordan was near enough to call over to W’th’vaathi. “You must contact the Silver Tower. We will not be able to flee from these attackers.”
“How can you be certain of this, Caine Riordan?” she asked as the various passengers began dismounting from the lowering backs of the striders.
“Because the attackers will quickly discern where to commence their search. Given the scarcity of metal objects on your surface, our wrecked shuttle will show them the start of our trail.”