“Thank you, Master Kyovska.” The officer retook his seat and Montero regarded the two Speakers again. “Please understand that the loss of life in this conflict will be tremendous, far exceeding anything Pallatin has experienced as a result of all its natural disasters combined.”
Salera raised a hand to speak. A nod from Montero and the muting for his transmission was canceled. “I don’t accept your projections,” he said, keeping his voice low and controlled. “Nor do I believe you’ll merely ‘wait around’ in orbit until such time as we’ve defeated the Westland forces.”
“Speaker Salera,” Montero shot back, “at this point, I don’t much care what you believe.”
The room fell into a deep, stunned silence.
Adela felt her stomach twisting in knots. The idea of a quarantine had been hers, but Montero was eager to put it into effect as a perfect compromise to using force to bring the frontier world into line with the Empire. But the idea was hers, and the full realization at the implications, the potential destruction and loss of life, weighed heavily upon her.
“Please understand something.” Adela spoke softly, but in the sudden quiet following Montero’s words her voice reverberated in the room, and she felt sure of herself as she spoke to the two men. “Our project will take centuries, and will impact the lives of more people than could fill a hundred Pallatins…” Her eyes met Niles’, and she quickly looked away. “I regret this, all of this, but we’ll wait it out. I’m sorry.”
Niles sat stolidly and gripped the armrests of his chair so hard that his knuckles went white. Someone appeared fuzzily at the edge of the image and he attempted to wave him away. There was an audible whispering too far out of his system’s pickup range to be understood. “Not now!” he barked, then thumbed his audio off as he dealt with the interruption. He spoke for several moments, then restored his audio.
“I’m sorry, too, Doctor.” He stood up wearily and regarded Montero. “I guess there isn’t much more to say, then, is there?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve just been informed that tremors have been reported near the Taw encampment. There may be injuries. Excuse me.”
He reached a shaking hand to the control stud on the armrest, and his image winked out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Can I help you with that?”
Amasee Niles had difficulty hearing the young soldier as he called from the front seat. He stopped fumbling with the restraining harness and adjusted the volume on his helmet comm, all the while trying to ignore the weight of the ungainly thing on his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he shouted unnecessarily into the curved mouthpiece, then returned to the tangled mess of straps crossing his chest.
The soldier from the front section, his shoulders hunched over to negotiate the restrictive cabin of the four-man supply hopper, came back to his seat. The Guard Corporal was a mere boy, surely no older than his son Clint.
“Let me help you with that, sir.” The Corporal deftly pulled the harness across Niles’ chest, clacking the catches and pulling the loose ends of the straps taut for him. “How’s that, sir? Too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”
He smiled and climbed back into the copilot’s position, and Niles heard the sound of the boy’s own harness being secured.
Niles leaned back, making himself as comfortable as he could in the cramped cabin. The craft had been designed mainly for short-range transport of shipping crates and supplies for commercial purposes, and the four seats forward of the cargo compartment—two crew positions and two passenger—felt as if they’d been added as an afterthought. At least, the two passenger seats did. In truth, the original cabin had been stripped and reoutfitted with smaller accommodations to allow for additional equipment when the craft had been adapted for military use. The rear seats were redesigned as gunner’s positions, but all weaponry had—on his personal order—been hastily stripped from the hopper for this trip. Niles absently fingered the mounting holes left behind when the starboard gun was unbolted from its spot below the glassless window.
Except for an occasional word or two between the pilots, the cabin was quiet; the constant vibration of the engines, on standby while they waited, was the only sound. Although the two soldiers in the pilots’ positions were volunteers, they were clearly nervous about this flight, and chose not to talk. The cabin seemed empty without the usual chatter Niles had grown accustomed to when being shuttled on congressional business.
The sun was nearly overhead, and he sweltered in the confines of the tiny space. Once under way the rush of air through the cabin would cool it sufficiently, but for now the scant breeze left sweat trickling down his scalp beneath the helmet. His back, securely harnessed against the plastic of the seat, was soaked through.
“Sir?” The pilot, a young Sergeant with the name “Ponde” stenciled on his helmet, had twisted around in his seat. “The truck’s here.”
Niles turned in the indicated direction and saw the supply truck speeding toward them over the concrete. It slowed as it neared and looped around so it could back up to the hopper’s opened and waiting cargo bay. The truck pulled to a halt a few meters from the hopper and two uniformed men jumped out of the cab. They opened the rear doors of the truck and climbed in, then directed the driver the rest of the way to the open hold. Over the soft humming of the standbys he could hear them moving about in the hold as they unloaded the truck. There wasn’t much to transfer, he knew, and the hold was sealed quickly, with the truck pulling away after only a few moments.
As the truck disappeared across the concrete, Amasee said, “Anytime, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Ponde gave him a thumbs-up, then nodded a silent “Good luck” to his copilot. He spoke a few words to the base controller, and they were on their way.
The hopper lifted quickly, smoothly, with the engines making little more sound than they had on standby. They flew in an exit pattern to the takeoff lane of the facility, then held position a hundred meters over the concrete, the hopper facing due east. From this height, the foothills lining Arroyo were easily visible several kilometers away, although the fault itself was still too far to be seen. Both Ponde and the copilot turned to him expectantly.
“The course is in?” Niles asked. A nod of confirmation. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
The engine whine climbed to a higher pitch and he felt himself being pressed back into the gunner’s seat. His eyes stung, and he pulled the helmet’s tinted visor down to shield his face from the wind now rushing into the cabin. With armaments stripped and minimal cargo, Niles realized, the hopper would reach top speed in only a few moments.
He reached for the small case on the seat next to him and set it on his knees, balancing it there as he flipped the latches open. He fingered the control pad of the portable comm set inside, activating the small system. “Sergeant, I’m cutting the internal two-way.” The pilot nodded over his shoulder and Niles flipped a switch, cutting the static-filled signal he’d been listening to for the last half hour. Touching a few more buttons brought a quiet, breathy carrier signal into his headphones. Tied in now to the main communications station at Newcastle, he tapped in a short sequence of numbers and a voice quickly came on the line.