assuming he was awake, because he didn’t answer her chime. After two tries, she opened the unlocked door and peeked in.
Something was wrong. Joyce lay in an awkward position, obviously unconscious, amid rumpled bedclothes. Even though the monitor beeped quietly and cheerily at the foot of his bed, his breath was shallow, his skin was pale and had a light sheen of sweat. She stepped to the foot of the bed and examined the monitor, started tracing the leads under the top sheet to where they connected to—
The monitor leads disappeared under the bed frame, instead of plugging into Joyce’s implants. A whispering sound at the door made her look around; Warrior Commander stood there with a slightly cocked head, as if homing in on a sound beyond human senses.
A frigid breeze brushed her and she stepped backward. The Minoan was suddenly kneeling beside the bed, reaching under it. When Warrior Commander stood, it held out its gloved hands. On the right hand rested a tiny sensor pad that connected via a thin wire to a small cylindrical device in the left hand. Her throat tightened: a Terran antipersonnel grenade , smaller than Warrior Commander’s palm. An old but reliable device used by TEBI during the war, designed to maim and wound. A device that couldn’t be separated from its sensor without causing detonation.
She whispered, “Don’t break the wi—”
Warrior Commander closed long inhuman fingers over the two devices and pulled. She heard the wire snap as she threw herself on the bed to cover Joyce.
CHAPTER 4
The establishment of an interstellar criminal tribunal (ICT) for some horrendous happening in G-145, muffled like a government cover-up, has net-think focusing upon the roots of interstellar criminal law. Als are scurrying to index this history, relegated to the obscurity of late-twentieth-century pre-Terran Earth. . . .
—Dr. Net-head Stavros , 2106.052.22.04 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 17 under Flux Imperative
A riane landed lengthwise on the bed, covering Joyce’s torso and head. She waited, tensely, for the deafening explosion and the pain of molten metal piercing her back and legs. She winced at a muffled pop and crackle.
“You are safe, Breaker of Treaties.”
She raised her head to look at Warrior Commander and cleared her throat. “What happened?”
“Please make your emergency call.”
Right—the Pilgrimage had to be warned. She pressed her implant mike. “Emergency, nine-one-one. We need an explosive ordnance disposal team in infirmary room three-two-seven. This is Major Kedros.” The traditional emergency code should be routed to the control deck, by any means possible. She heard warning alarms start in the corridor. Her message went through, so the node in Joyce’s room really did work, at least for processing base- level emergency directives.
The Minoan warrior had its hands tightly closed, held carefully away from its torso. Slowly, its hands uncurled to show the sensor pad in one and a molten mass of metal in the other. A strange and unpleasant smell filled the room, partly caustic explosive, and partly—what? The Minoan gloves, apparently, weren’t made of leather.
When she reached to touch what had once been a grenade, Warrior Commander stepped back and said, “It will burn your skin.”
“Room three-two-seven, this is Pilgrimage command deck. Major Kedros, are you there?” The voice, carrying over the alarms, came from the comm panel next to the door. “A damage assessment team is on its way, and we’ve called for explosive ordnance disposal personnel from the Bright Crescent .”
The medical technician bustled in, checked Joyce, and called for support. More medics pushed their way to the bed and fussed over Joyce. Then, as if there weren’t enough people in the room already, the AFCAW Explosives Ordnance Disposal team showed up. She convinced Warrior Commander to hand over what was left of the grenade to the EOD team. There wasn’t any space to move,
Something was wrong. Joyce lay in an awkward position, obviously unconscious, amid rumpled bedclothes. Even though the monitor beeped quietly and cheerily at the foot of his bed, his breath was shallow, his skin was pale and had a light sheen of sweat. She stepped to the foot of the bed and examined the monitor, started tracing the leads under the top sheet to where they connected to—
The monitor leads disappeared under the bed frame, instead of plugging into Joyce’s implants. A whispering sound at the door made her look around; Warrior Commander stood there with a slightly cocked head, as if homing in on a sound beyond human senses.
A frigid breeze brushed her and she stepped backward. The Minoan was suddenly kneeling beside the bed, reaching under it. When Warrior Commander stood, it held out its gloved hands. On the right hand rested a tiny sensor pad that connected via a thin wire to a small cylindrical device in the left hand. Her throat tightened: a Terran antipersonnel grenade , smaller than Warrior Commander’s palm. An old but reliable device used by TEBI during the war, designed to maim and wound. A device that couldn’t be separated from its sensor without causing detonation.
She whispered, “Don’t break the wi—”
Warrior Commander closed long inhuman fingers over the two devices and pulled. She heard the wire snap as she threw herself on the bed to cover Joyce.
CHAPTER 4
The establishment of an interstellar criminal tribunal (ICT) for some horrendous happening in G-145, muffled like a government cover-up, has net-think focusing upon the roots of interstellar criminal law. Als are scurrying to index this history, relegated to the obscurity of late-twentieth-century pre-Terran Earth. . . .
—Dr. Net-head Stavros , 2106.052.22.04 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 17 under Flux Imperative
A riane landed lengthwise on the bed, covering Joyce’s torso and head. She waited, tensely, for the deafening explosion and the pain of molten metal piercing her back and legs. She winced at a muffled pop and crackle.
“You are safe, Breaker of Treaties.”
She raised her head to look at Warrior Commander and cleared her throat. “What happened?”
“Please make your emergency call.”
Right—the Pilgrimage had to be warned. She pressed her implant mike. “Emergency, nine-one-one. We need an explosive ordnance disposal team in infirmary room three-two-seven. This is Major Kedros.” The traditional emergency code should be routed to the control deck, by any means possible. She heard warning alarms start in the corridor. Her message went through, so the node in Joyce’s room really did work, at least for processing base- level emergency directives.
The Minoan warrior had its hands tightly closed, held carefully away from its torso. Slowly, its hands uncurled to show the sensor pad in one and a molten mass of metal in the other. A strange and unpleasant smell filled the room, partly caustic explosive, and partly—what? The Minoan gloves, apparently, weren’t made of leather.
When she reached to touch what had once been a grenade, Warrior Commander stepped back and said, “It will burn your skin.”
“Room three-two-seven, this is Pilgrimage command deck. Major Kedros, are you there?” The voice, carrying over the alarms, came from the comm panel next to the door. “A damage assessment team is on its way, and we’ve called for explosive ordnance disposal personnel from the Bright Crescent .”
The medical technician bustled in, checked Joyce, and called for support. More medics pushed their way to the bed and fussed over Joyce. Then, as if there weren’t enough people in the room already, the AFCAW Explosives Ordnance Disposal team showed up. She convinced Warrior Commander to hand over what was left of the grenade to the EOD team. There wasn’t any space to move,
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