safe. Even so, he spared a few intrigued glances for the piles of research equipment.
Seven Wars came around a bit, his craggy head resting on Floyt's knee. He pawed feebly at a big, bulky pouch on his harness. Before he could get it open, he drifted off again.
Floyt worked the piece of equipment free of its pouch. It was bell-nozzled, with small fittings and manipulators retracted up inside the bell. It had a reservoir of some kind and a handgrip. Floyt hadn't the first idea how the thing worked, though the controls looked very simple.
He turned to the corpse of the Corporeal, laying the muzzle of the medical instrument over one of its wounds.
The device buzzed his palm silently, which, Floyt concluded, was meant to let him know this patient was dead, without giving off light or sound that might attract enemy fire.
Floyt pressed his thumb against a button. The device vibrated a little, growing warmer. When he removed it, the machine had irrigated and sterilized the wound and covered it with layers of sticky webbing, some sort of battlefield dressing.
Floyt pried Seven War's powerful fingers away from his wound and used the envoy's combat knife to cut away the fabric of his uniform. Blood ran freely, and Floyt's hands began trembling. He laid the muzzle of the medical kit over the wound and triggered it. The unit became warm under his hand until a measured pulsing of its grip gave him what he supposed to be a treatment-completed signal. When he removed the unit, Seven Wars' wound was thick with spun dressing and no longer losing blood. Floyt began checking him out for other wounds.
Alacrity reappeared. "How is he?"
Floyt looked at the medical instrument doubtfully. "I found a switch to take readings, but I don't know what any of them— look out !"
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (33 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:28
[Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE
Alacrity spun, holding the Captain's Sidearm at waist level with both hands. He was facing a man in a mottled battle suit and chinstrapped helmet holding a flechette burpgun slung from one shoulder.
Got me cold … Alacrity knew it would be his last thought. He tried to fire anyway; he didn't realize that he was shouting at the top of his lungs.
The burst never came. The intruder's expression was stunned disbelief as he squeezed the trigger without effect.
Showdown syndrome, Alacrity registered with a stopped heart. He must've emptied his magazine without realizing it. The crash of Alacrity's shot took the man squarely in the chest, driving him back off balance, riddling and igniting him. The intruder shrieked once, then collapsed, clothing aflame, tissue smoldering, marrow gone to ash.
Alacrity fired again to make sure he wasn't suffering, but it produced only a weak, pale ray. As charnel smoke mushroomed into the vault of the Precursors, he tried again with no result.
Coughing and choking, he pulled the blue bandanna up over his nose and mouth, stepping over the corpse, fumbling for a new charge even though the gun still read full. Another intruder rushed him from one side, raising a thing that looked like a combination war axe and carbine.
That one didn't fire either, but knew he was out of ammunition. He'd attacked because he saw no other alternative to being burned down. Alacrity tried to throw himself out of the way, slamming into a wall of Weir machinery, setting off agony in his elbow and ribs. He brought his father's weapon around and up with all his might, left hand reinforcing the grip of his right.
The blade of the gun-axe met the long, thick rib beneath the pistol's barrel, adding a new dent and nearly knocking it from Alacrity's hands. The man closed with him, sending them both toppling sideways against a console.
Alacrity freed up the pistol long enough to slam it against his opponents helmet, but that didn't do much good. He just warded off another blow of the axe with the
Seven Wars came around a bit, his craggy head resting on Floyt's knee. He pawed feebly at a big, bulky pouch on his harness. Before he could get it open, he drifted off again.
Floyt worked the piece of equipment free of its pouch. It was bell-nozzled, with small fittings and manipulators retracted up inside the bell. It had a reservoir of some kind and a handgrip. Floyt hadn't the first idea how the thing worked, though the controls looked very simple.
He turned to the corpse of the Corporeal, laying the muzzle of the medical instrument over one of its wounds.
The device buzzed his palm silently, which, Floyt concluded, was meant to let him know this patient was dead, without giving off light or sound that might attract enemy fire.
Floyt pressed his thumb against a button. The device vibrated a little, growing warmer. When he removed it, the machine had irrigated and sterilized the wound and covered it with layers of sticky webbing, some sort of battlefield dressing.
Floyt pried Seven War's powerful fingers away from his wound and used the envoy's combat knife to cut away the fabric of his uniform. Blood ran freely, and Floyt's hands began trembling. He laid the muzzle of the medical kit over the wound and triggered it. The unit became warm under his hand until a measured pulsing of its grip gave him what he supposed to be a treatment-completed signal. When he removed the unit, Seven Wars' wound was thick with spun dressing and no longer losing blood. Floyt began checking him out for other wounds.
Alacrity reappeared. "How is he?"
Floyt looked at the medical instrument doubtfully. "I found a switch to take readings, but I don't know what any of them— look out !"
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (33 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:28
[Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE
Alacrity spun, holding the Captain's Sidearm at waist level with both hands. He was facing a man in a mottled battle suit and chinstrapped helmet holding a flechette burpgun slung from one shoulder.
Got me cold … Alacrity knew it would be his last thought. He tried to fire anyway; he didn't realize that he was shouting at the top of his lungs.
The burst never came. The intruder's expression was stunned disbelief as he squeezed the trigger without effect.
Showdown syndrome, Alacrity registered with a stopped heart. He must've emptied his magazine without realizing it. The crash of Alacrity's shot took the man squarely in the chest, driving him back off balance, riddling and igniting him. The intruder shrieked once, then collapsed, clothing aflame, tissue smoldering, marrow gone to ash.
Alacrity fired again to make sure he wasn't suffering, but it produced only a weak, pale ray. As charnel smoke mushroomed into the vault of the Precursors, he tried again with no result.
Coughing and choking, he pulled the blue bandanna up over his nose and mouth, stepping over the corpse, fumbling for a new charge even though the gun still read full. Another intruder rushed him from one side, raising a thing that looked like a combination war axe and carbine.
That one didn't fire either, but knew he was out of ammunition. He'd attacked because he saw no other alternative to being burned down. Alacrity tried to throw himself out of the way, slamming into a wall of Weir machinery, setting off agony in his elbow and ribs. He brought his father's weapon around and up with all his might, left hand reinforcing the grip of his right.
The blade of the gun-axe met the long, thick rib beneath the pistol's barrel, adding a new dent and nearly knocking it from Alacrity's hands. The man closed with him, sending them both toppling sideways against a console.
Alacrity freed up the pistol long enough to slam it against his opponents helmet, but that didn't do much good. He just warded off another blow of the axe with the
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