sundered the very molecules that sustained us all, dust particles flashing into component atoms in the same moment to create an eye-bending sparkle that distracted even our ferocious many-limbed assailant.
One rifle exploded, taking the tip end of an arm with it in a shower of glass, accompanied by an ammoniac ordure very much at odds with the gleaming destruction. The other rifle swung to Heminge as he collided with the fast-moving legs, tumbling amid their silver-gray stems like a man in a twisting cage.
I launched myself after him, noting out of the corner of my eye Deckard taking a headshot on Beaumont, even as Marley scrambled for better cover, his medical kit already in his hand. Ever an optimist, the doctor, thinking about who might survive to be the recipient of his attentions. The rifle spat again, and something burned my thigh with the fire of a solar prominence, but then I was in among the legs, pressing the bell of my flechette pistol against a joint and firing even as Heminge shouted something unintelligible and loosed his meson pistol into the dented, dull ball which seemed to serve as nerve center and balance point for our enemy.
The very air ripped once more and my hair caught fire, and then the thing exploded in a clatter shower of legs.
For a moment there was only the patter of debris and the whirl of dust devils, the ammonia scent of local death mixing with the stench of my burned hair. I looked up, for somehow I was not standing anymore, to see the long legs of Fishman above me.
“Granny Rail will be angry,” he said, smiling enough to show shattered teeth that gleamed even within the shadows of his mouth.
I was amazed that I could hear him. I struggled for my voice, choking on dust, some thick, pooling liquid, and—though it shamed me—fear. “I want Cordel,” I said, my finger crooking on the trigger of my pistol.
Marley bent over me while Deckard gathered pieces of the monster. Heminge, who unaccountably still had all his hair, grabbed at Fishman’s arm. “We will find her.”
A few minutes later my leg was bandaged and splinted. Deckard had the pieces of the monster laid out in roughly their original relationship, albeit disjointed and unmotivated now, studying them with the intensity of a mystic at the feet of his god. Marley squatted on his heels and watched me just as carefully.
“What is it we came to kill?” the doctor finally asked me. “Surely not these madmen with excessively high survival quotients?”
I could not be certain that I wasn’t dying—Heminge’s meson pistol had done more to my head than simply burn my hair off, either that or our erstwhile assailant had struck me a chance blow there during the battle. Beaumont was dead, unmourned, and so would not report me for treasonous speech. I could see him, steaming slightly, something wrong even with his blood. “Broken Spear,” I said, finding the words difficult. My mind formed them well enough, but something was wrong with my mouth and throat. “ Broken Spear carried . . . biologicals—templates.”
Marley’s mouth twisted, his eye thoughtful. “Combat viruses?”
I tried to nod, but that was worse than speaking. “Uh huh. Tactical . . . population . . . con . . . control.”
He glanced around. “If they’re loose, we’re all already infected. We may never go home.”
“Planet . . . buster. We . . . have . . . quarantine . . . arr . . . arrangements.”
“I can imagine. Well, whatever it is didn’t kill all of these people. There are at least three of these lunatics left, after several decades. Which makes me wonder if the virus ever got into the wild.”
My voice was coming back to me. “Not much . . . population control . . . there.”
The doctor grinned. “You’re returning to us, Captain. Had me worried for a minute or two.”
Deckard wandered over, a broken crystal rod in his hand. He cocked his head, stared at me as he wrinkled his nose. “You going to live, sir?”
“Yes.” I
One rifle exploded, taking the tip end of an arm with it in a shower of glass, accompanied by an ammoniac ordure very much at odds with the gleaming destruction. The other rifle swung to Heminge as he collided with the fast-moving legs, tumbling amid their silver-gray stems like a man in a twisting cage.
I launched myself after him, noting out of the corner of my eye Deckard taking a headshot on Beaumont, even as Marley scrambled for better cover, his medical kit already in his hand. Ever an optimist, the doctor, thinking about who might survive to be the recipient of his attentions. The rifle spat again, and something burned my thigh with the fire of a solar prominence, but then I was in among the legs, pressing the bell of my flechette pistol against a joint and firing even as Heminge shouted something unintelligible and loosed his meson pistol into the dented, dull ball which seemed to serve as nerve center and balance point for our enemy.
The very air ripped once more and my hair caught fire, and then the thing exploded in a clatter shower of legs.
For a moment there was only the patter of debris and the whirl of dust devils, the ammonia scent of local death mixing with the stench of my burned hair. I looked up, for somehow I was not standing anymore, to see the long legs of Fishman above me.
“Granny Rail will be angry,” he said, smiling enough to show shattered teeth that gleamed even within the shadows of his mouth.
I was amazed that I could hear him. I struggled for my voice, choking on dust, some thick, pooling liquid, and—though it shamed me—fear. “I want Cordel,” I said, my finger crooking on the trigger of my pistol.
Marley bent over me while Deckard gathered pieces of the monster. Heminge, who unaccountably still had all his hair, grabbed at Fishman’s arm. “We will find her.”
A few minutes later my leg was bandaged and splinted. Deckard had the pieces of the monster laid out in roughly their original relationship, albeit disjointed and unmotivated now, studying them with the intensity of a mystic at the feet of his god. Marley squatted on his heels and watched me just as carefully.
“What is it we came to kill?” the doctor finally asked me. “Surely not these madmen with excessively high survival quotients?”
I could not be certain that I wasn’t dying—Heminge’s meson pistol had done more to my head than simply burn my hair off, either that or our erstwhile assailant had struck me a chance blow there during the battle. Beaumont was dead, unmourned, and so would not report me for treasonous speech. I could see him, steaming slightly, something wrong even with his blood. “Broken Spear,” I said, finding the words difficult. My mind formed them well enough, but something was wrong with my mouth and throat. “ Broken Spear carried . . . biologicals—templates.”
Marley’s mouth twisted, his eye thoughtful. “Combat viruses?”
I tried to nod, but that was worse than speaking. “Uh huh. Tactical . . . population . . . con . . . control.”
He glanced around. “If they’re loose, we’re all already infected. We may never go home.”
“Planet . . . buster. We . . . have . . . quarantine . . . arr . . . arrangements.”
“I can imagine. Well, whatever it is didn’t kill all of these people. There are at least three of these lunatics left, after several decades. Which makes me wonder if the virus ever got into the wild.”
My voice was coming back to me. “Not much . . . population control . . . there.”
The doctor grinned. “You’re returning to us, Captain. Had me worried for a minute or two.”
Deckard wandered over, a broken crystal rod in his hand. He cocked his head, stared at me as he wrinkled his nose. “You going to live, sir?”
“Yes.” I
Similar Books
