Edward willett, p.38
Edward Willett, page 38
The door slid open, and a Holy Warrior came in, dragging—
Cheveldeoff stared. The Holy Warrior was dragging a boy wearing tattered pajama bottoms and nothing else, a boy with a few wispy whiskers on his chin and a mat of tangled brown hair.
“Chris Keating?” Cheveldeoff said.
The Holy Warrior looked startled and relaxed his grip. “We found him in the hallway outside,” he said. “I don’t know where—”
Keating pulled himself free and straightened up. “Mr. Cheveldeoff,” he said, and strode forward, holding out his hand.
Cheveldeoff was so bemused he took it for a moment before snatching it back. “How the hell did you get on board?” he bellowed.
“Stowed away,” said Chris. “Spare pressure suit, empty equipment locker. Good thing, too. I hear Sanctification made it down intact.” He grinned. “Which is more than I would have if they had gotten me down there with it. But you’re in luck. Here I am, and I can tell you what’s what and who’s who down there. To properly Purify that cesspool of a planet, Mr. Cheveldeoff, sir, you need me.” His grin faded. “I don’t think you’ve fully appreciated that. I don’t think anyone has.”
“Lock him up,” Cheveldeoff growled. “Full quarantine.” He looked around the room. “Proceed with your plans, Grand Deacon.”
“The plague, sir?” Braun said.
Cheveldeoff wanted desperately to wash his hand, but he very carefully folded it behind his back with its mate instead. “What plague, Grand Deacon? Chris Keating himself told us it was a chemical attack that killed Sanctification’s crew, not anything biological. If that were not true, he would hardly have risked us all by coming here, would he?” Considering the little creep had just shaken his hand, he dearly hoped his logic held water.
“No, sir,” said Braun.
“Carry on, then,” said Cheveldeoff. “I’ll be in my quarters. Report when you’re ready to launch.” He went out. Braun backed down again. Maybe I’m overly concerned.
Well, he’d keep his loyalists in position, just in case.
As he walked toward his quarters, Cheveldeoff cleared his throat, trying to get rid of an annoying tickle that had just started.
Too much talking, he thought. I’d better rest my voice for a while.
One small part of his brain, however, gathered a seed of panic to itself, planted it, and waited for it to grow.
The reinforcements from Hansen’s Harbor arrived two hours after the message went out from the grounded Sanctification. By that time, Richard had a pretty good idea of the extent of damage to the ship, thanks partly to the computer but especially thanks to O’Sullivan, whose knowledge of the Holy Warrior vessel seemed encyclopedic, far exceeding what Richard had picked up in the few days he had spent on board. O’Sullivan obviously felt much better since receiving the vaccination. In fact, he’d become positively garrulous, showing them around the ship as if he owned it.
Parts of it, of course, they couldn’t even get to. The bridge and other vital control rooms maintained proper orientation when the ship landed, but less important rooms were supposed to be secured for landing. With the crew dead, they hadn’t been. The violent descent and just the fact half the rooms were sideways and a quarter completely upside down had played havoc with everything not nailed down.
Weapons and ammunition, however, were all properly stored and readily accessible. And the all-important air-attack shuttles had ridden out the descent in fine style, their gimbaled landing pads keeping them upright and ready for launch at a moment’s notice. Richard suspected that just such a launch would be called for the minute they had pilots who could fly them…if anyone could. Until someone more qualified got a look at their controls, that was anybody’s guess.
One room they found contained a docbot that made quick work of setting his arm and cleaning and sealing Emily’s leg wound and pumping them both full of fast-heal—although it would also have pumped her full of drugs she didn’t need that might have killed her if they hadn’t been monitoring it closely: apparently her perfectly normal Selkie vital signs indicated to the docbot deathly illness.
Throughout the two hours, Richard wouldn’t have been surprised to see shuttles from Retribution dropping out of the sky. He didn’t relax after the reinforcements from Hansen’s Harbor showed up; they remained vulnerable until the weapons from Sanctification had been dispersed and the assault craft were either under Marseguroite control or disabled.
Eventually, he had to sleep, first giving strict orders (not that he had any particular right to issue orders, but somehow people kept doing what he said) to wake him if the Holy Warriors showed up or if they received any communication.
He slept well and long…too long. He checked and double-checked the time, then hurried into his clothes and out of the captain’s cabin he had appropriated for his nap, out the nearest access hatch and down the ladder extruding from it to the ground.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded of Council Chair Jeter, who had shown up with the first batch of reinforcements and stood watching crates being loaded onto a groundcar in the early morning light.
Jeter raised an eyebrow. “You said to wake you if something happened. Nothing happened.”
That brought him up short. “Nothing?”
“Nothing untoward. It took all night, but we’ve dispersed almost all the weapons and ammunition. The pilots are still puzzling over some of the controls for the assault craft, but they’re confident they can get them in the air if they have to, even if they can’t use the weapons systems. But so far, we haven’t heard or seen anything of the Holy Warriors.” Jeter pointed to the First Landing storage cave in the steep red hillside a hundred meters away, where they’d set up headquarters. “Emily is in there with her mother. Dr. Christianson-Wood said she’d like to talk to you when you woke up.”
“Uh…okay.” Bemused, Richard trudged across the blackened near-grass covering the valley floor.
No sign of the Holy Warriors after more than twelve hours? Cheveldeoff couldn’t have been fool enough to let a plague-infested shuttle on board his ship…could he?
The storage cave had been the colonists’ first shelter. The Selkies had relied on the water tanks on the ship for their comfort and survival, while the landlings had lived in the cave. Very little natural rock remained exposed. Corridors and rooms had been carved out and lined with fast-setting-but-damn-ugly gray concrete. It felt exactly like what it was, a bunker providing shelter from a possibly hostile world.
Richard found Emily and her mother in the only room in the complex with a window, a small round portal camouflaged from the outside by an overhanging rock. Through a screen of near-grass stems, it provided an adequate if slightly obscured view of Sanctification and the people bustling around it.
Dr. Christianson-Wood, wearing a plain white landsuit, stood looking out that window as he entered. The rooms had long ago been stripped of their original furnishings, but someone had moved in a folding table and chairs, and judging by the empty food and drink containers piled in an old cargo crate in one corner, people had been taking their breaks here. Emily sat at the table, wearing an electric-blue landsuit with green lightning bolts slashing down the sides. He’d gotten so used to seeing her in black that the bright colors startled him.
“You wanted to see me, Dr. Christianson-Wood?” Richard said. “Hi, Emily. Get some sleep?”
“Not as much as you,” she said. “But some.” She nodded at her mother. “We’ve been talking, mostly.”
Dr. Christianson-Wood turned from the window and faced him. “We’ve been talking about what we should do next,” she said quietly. “Because we can’t stay here.”
Richard opened his mouth; closed it again. He’d been so focused on the here and now that he hadn’t looked any further down the road. But of course she was right. Even if the Holy Warriors aboard Retribution decided not to attack—and now that the Marseguroites had the weapons and assault craft from Sanctification, it would be suicide—they’d only bought a temporary reprieve. Cheveldeoff would head back to Earth, and return with however many ships he needed to purify Marseguro—purify it right down to bare and glowing bedrock.
He won’t bother with Holy Warriors next time. It will be orbital bombardment from the beginning, and likely with nuclear weapons. “You’re thinking of evacuating on Sanctification?” he said quietly.
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Dr. Christianson-Wood shook her head. “But it won’t carry the entire population. Not even close. And anyone who is left behind…”
“Hidden habitats,” Richard said. “New ones, stealthed so they can’t be detected from orbit. Move the population into the deep oceans. Send out Sanctification for help.”
“Who will help us?” Dr. Christianson-Wood said. Her gill slits flared, pink, gaping mouths on her neck, and her oversized eyes opened wide. “Who will help us against the Body Purified? Against Earth?” She glared at him, then relaxed. “No one, that’s who. Fifty Earth years ago, at least, even the colonies that opposed the Body Purified barely tolerated moddies. Has that changed?”
Richard had to shake his head. “No.”
“Then all we can do is hide.” She sighed. “I did the best I could, with my nasty little plague. But in the end…” Her shoulders slumped. “I killed all those people…became a mass murderer…for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” Emily snapped. “We’ve been over this. For survival.”
“But we still may not survive,” Dr. Christianson-Wood said. “Certainly many of us won’t.”
“But many will,” Richard said. He understood Dr. Christianson-Wood’s pain because it matched his own, the pain locked down deep where he’d also tried to bury the unassuageable guilt of the agony he had brought to this planet and its people. “Many will survive on Sanctification. The ship recognizes me as Acting Captain, and O’Sullivan has the technical know-how we need. She came down in good shape. We can get her back into space. And she can carry hundreds, even if she can’t carry everyone. The Selkies will survive. I’ll see to it. They’re…” His voice trailed off. He’d just realized that he was echoing, almost word for word, what Victor Hansen had said before the Rivers of Babylon headed into space from Luna fifty Earth and forty Marseguro years before, ultimately ending up in the broad, flat valley bottom right outside the window. Well, why not? I am Victor Hansen, or at least part of me is.
“We’ll have to decide who gets to go, and who stays,” Dr. Christianson-Wood said. “It won’t be easy.”
“No, it won’t,” Richard said.
“It may be easier than you think,” Emily said. She stood up. “I won’t go, for example.”
Both Richard and Dr. Christianson-Wood jerked their heads toward her. “Yes, you will,” said Dr. Christianson-Wood.
You tell her! Richard thought.
“No, I won’t.” Emily came over to her mother. “You asked me, back before this all started, what I was going to do with my life. You didn’t want me wasting it on something frivolous when so much work remained building Marseguro, expanding our presence here. Well, in the past few weeks I’ve learned you…and Daddy…were right. I’ve fought…I’ve killed…so Marseguro will survive, Mother. I’m not going to run out on her now.”
“But if you’re on Sanctification, we can find a new planet. A new world to build,” Richard said. “For the Selkies…” And I don’t want to leave you behind! But he couldn’t say that.
Not yet.
Especially not with her mother standing right there.
“This planet is my home,” Emily said. “I won’t let it be destroyed without a fight. We have the shuttles. We have the know-how to make planet-to-orbit missiles, smart bullets, dumb dust, even missile interceptors.”
“But you may not have time to—”
“But we may,” Emily said. “You didn’t think we even had time to take the weapons off of Sanctification. But where are the Holy Warriors?”
As if on cue, a young man burst into the room. “Transmission coming in,” he gasped. “For you, Mr. Hansen.”
Richard glanced from Dr. Christianson-Wood to Emily. “I guess we’re about to find out.” He turned to the young man. “I’m right behind you,” he said, and followed him out of the cave.
Chapter 23
LOCKED UP AGAIN, Chris Keating thought gloomily, sitting in the brig of Retribution. On the plus side, at least they’d given him proper clothes—a blue Holy Warrior jumpsuit and shoes. Until they had, he’d begun to think he’d never be warm again. The pressure suit he’d donned in the shuttle locker must have had heaters on it, but he hadn’t known how to raise them from what must have been a minimal default setting, and he’d felt like a walking iceberg by the time the shuttle had docked with Retribution.
He’d almost hidden in the locker without the suit. If he had, he would have been dead the instant they’d left Sanctification, because shortly after launch they’d blown out the atmosphere. He’d expected them to repressurize at some point, but they never did. And when he finally dared to exit the locker and peer out of the shuttle after they reached Retribution, he’d found it locked down in an unpressurized bay, Marseguro swimming in space outside the open hatch.
What had happened to the crew, he had no idea. He’d found an air lock, cycled through, and stripped off his pressure suit without seeing anyone.
Retribution felt much smaller than Sanctification, but had a similar layout. Chris had avoided the open central shaft and made his way toward the bow through secondary passageways. He’d been nabbed, not trying to get into the briefing room as the guard seemed to think, but trying to get to the bridge. It didn’t matter; his real goal was Cheveldeoff, and lo and behold, he’d finally met the Archdeacon face-to-face, shaken his hand, offered his help…
…and had been cooling his heels in here ever since. A sound brought him upright, an unmistakable sound with no place on a spaceship:
Gunfire.
More shots, and the distant thump of an explosion. Running footsteps outside the door, passing without slowing. Vibrations. More noises. A hint of shouting voices…
What’s going on?
A particularly loud bang rang his cell like a gong. The normal lighting flickered, went out, and gave way to the sickly green glow of emergency lights…and his door unlocked itself and slid open.
Chris peered out. The brig cells all opened into a central area with a circular desk at which the guard on duty passed his time. But no one sat there now. All the other cells stood open and empty.
Another rattle of rifle fire.
Feeling more naked than he had when he’d been running around in nothing but pajama bottoms, Chris crept out into the open and headed for the sound of fighting.
The first burst of gunfire brought Cheveldeoff to his feet behind the desk in his quarters, laser pistol in his hand. He held his breath, and listened.
More shots. A few shouts.
“Computer, status report,” he said.
“You are not authorized to issue commands to this unit,” said the computer.
What?
He slapped at the comm button on his desk. “Bridge, this is Cheveldeoff. What’s going on?”
No answer.
Cheveldeoff coughed. The damn tickle had turned into a scratch and now a raging sore throat. He felt something trickle from one nostril, and brushed at his nose with the back of his free hand.
It came away red.
What the hell…?
The part of his mind nurturing the seed of panic let it bloom. Plague! Keating lied. He’s a carrier!
I have to get to the sick bay…
Gripping the pistol, he opened the door to his quarters…
…to find the Holy Warrior he’d last seen manning the communications console on the bridge—Greist, that was his name—just reaching out to open the door from the other side.
Two other Holy Warriors Cheveldeoff recognized as part of the loyal contingent that he’d managed to get assigned to the mission stood behind Greist. “Braun twigged,” Greist said without preamble. “There are running battles all over the ship for all the key positions we’d lined up. We’re holding engineering and the shuttle bays, but Braun still has the bridge. We’ve been working on the crew since we launched, but Braun still has the edge in manpower.” He coughed. “What’s left of it. People are getting sick, sir, all over the ship.”
“Damn,” Cheveldeoff said. His throat felt like sandpaper, and he wheezed when he drew a breath. “Keating brought it on board. Whatever killed Sanctification’s crew and the Warriors on the ground. We’ve got to get to sick bay. There must be something they can do.”
Greist shook his head. A tiny ruby drop flew from one of his nostrils and landed on Cheveldeoff’s cheek; he wiped it away. “Braun’s men hold sick bay.”
“Then I’ve got to talk to Braun,” Cheveldeoff said. “We need a comm channel to the bridge. He’s killed my computer privileges, but he has to be getting reports from key stations.”
“The brig is closest,” one of the Holy Warriors said. “There should be a comm station there with manual controls.”
Cheveldeoff nodded, his throat so raw the motion felt like he’d swallowed glass. He wiped more blood from his nose. “Let’s go,” he said. “I don’t think any of us have much time.”
The brig stood open. All the cells were empty. “Didn’t we put Keating down here?” Cheveldeoff said.
“Looks like something blew the security circuits,” Greist said. “Keating must have run for it.” He sat down at the desk. “Comm channels work.” He looked up. “I can put you through to the bridge.”
“Do it.” Cheveldeoff cleared his throat, but it didn’t really help; it still felt like ground glass and sandpaper.
“Bridge,” a voice said tersely—Braun’s voice.
“Braun, it’s Cheveldeoff.”
Silence for a moment. “Your plan has failed, Cheveldeoff. I knew you intended to take the ship. I moved first. You’ve only got a couple of key stations. You can’t get any more. Tell your men to stand down.”
I don’t have time for this, Cheveldeoff thought. The panic had bloomed and spread and now threatened to choke off all reason. “How many of your men are sick?” he snapped.
