safe.
They were in a tunnel of some sort, close and round and old . Not a whiff of steel or oil in the air at all, just a flexing as if of muscle, moving the air around them. Rainbird reached out a hand, touched a bundle of something that gave slightly, something fibrous.
Electricity…sparks…messages flying back and forth…and under it all the ghost of a whimper.
Rainbird recoiled, bumping her head into Sanders’ jaw. “The spinal cord.” She shuddered.
“Wha—?” Sanders inched out from behind her, groped for the spinal cord. “It really is.” Awe suffused his voice. Rainbird resisted the urge to make a tart remark about his insinuation that she couldn’t tell what she’d bumped into. He sounded alert, he moved better. Even his breathing was less labored.
“Are you feeling all right?”
He slumped in the dark. Rainbird reached out to steady him. “I—tired. Dizzy. If only…tools…wireless.” Rainbird had to lean in to hear his words. They rustled like faint breezes. “Could…hook…to…muni…tions... tems…”
He wanted to tap into the cord itself, into the conduit that was even now transmitting signals—from Headside to Tailside, from egg to egg. Was the news of the bomb being relayed even now?
Great Glew! Did Petrus know? Rainbird sat up bolt upright. I have to get back to him before he does something really crazy! Oh please, let him still be out cold! She should’ve laced his soup with sleeping powder.
Rainbird pulled Sanders to his feet, draped one limp arm across her shoulders. “There are access tunnels all along here. It might be a bit of a hike, but we’ll get out of here, don’t you worry.”
Back out on the nightside. Rainbird’s spirits lifted, then an unnerving thought struck her.
Someone had planted a bomb on the sunway. Had the saboteurs wanted to attack the already bonerot-weakened section, or were they hoping for fatalities as well?
Had Sanders and Rainbid been unlucky, or had they been picked as victims?
Regulations stated that there had to be a full suit of outerwear and an emergency kit at every access tunnel. What Rainbird actually found were the odd pieces from three different suits, a radio that didn’t transmit and received only static, a flashlight with a dying battery, and a bar of some unidentifiable substance that had once been food. Dried beef, perhaps. Rainbird didn’t sniff it too closely and avoided touching it.
She bullied Sanders into taking off her coat and bundled him into the outerwear. The coat was too short at the hem and the pants too large—his legs looked as if they’d gone swimming. She jammed the gas mask over his head and face, after giving the inside a wipe with her sleeve. The fungus inside had had a party and invited all its friends—it was probably covered in spores. She hoped the wiz wouldn’t go into allergic shock; he seemed the type who would.
Rainbird breathed in lungfuls of clean frosty air when they once again stood on the nightside. Even old Glew, glowering down at her, was a welcome sight. She raised her arms, rose up on her toes, stretching out her muscles and the kinks in her back and legs, listening for that brush of music against her ears.
Sanders ripped off his gas mask, sank to one knee, wheezing. “Can’t…breathe.” He gestured to the mask.
She stared at him, dismayed. So close. He couldn’t die now!
“You need to cover up. Your face is too exposed.” She was already winding a musty woolen muffler around his neck and ears and head. “Here, hold it to your mouth.” Sanders’ hand shook so much that she had to guide the mask into it and bend his elbow so his nose and mouth were angled close to the fungus.
Sanders sucked in one gasping breath, then broke out coughing. “Where are we?”
“Marker 44.”
“My lab…not far…”
“Where is it?”
“46.” A two-marker walk was nothing to her, but to him, in his condition?
It’s closer than our egg, closer than Headquarters. It’ll be
They were in a tunnel of some sort, close and round and old . Not a whiff of steel or oil in the air at all, just a flexing as if of muscle, moving the air around them. Rainbird reached out a hand, touched a bundle of something that gave slightly, something fibrous.
Electricity…sparks…messages flying back and forth…and under it all the ghost of a whimper.
Rainbird recoiled, bumping her head into Sanders’ jaw. “The spinal cord.” She shuddered.
“Wha—?” Sanders inched out from behind her, groped for the spinal cord. “It really is.” Awe suffused his voice. Rainbird resisted the urge to make a tart remark about his insinuation that she couldn’t tell what she’d bumped into. He sounded alert, he moved better. Even his breathing was less labored.
“Are you feeling all right?”
He slumped in the dark. Rainbird reached out to steady him. “I—tired. Dizzy. If only…tools…wireless.” Rainbird had to lean in to hear his words. They rustled like faint breezes. “Could…hook…to…muni…tions... tems…”
He wanted to tap into the cord itself, into the conduit that was even now transmitting signals—from Headside to Tailside, from egg to egg. Was the news of the bomb being relayed even now?
Great Glew! Did Petrus know? Rainbird sat up bolt upright. I have to get back to him before he does something really crazy! Oh please, let him still be out cold! She should’ve laced his soup with sleeping powder.
Rainbird pulled Sanders to his feet, draped one limp arm across her shoulders. “There are access tunnels all along here. It might be a bit of a hike, but we’ll get out of here, don’t you worry.”
Back out on the nightside. Rainbird’s spirits lifted, then an unnerving thought struck her.
Someone had planted a bomb on the sunway. Had the saboteurs wanted to attack the already bonerot-weakened section, or were they hoping for fatalities as well?
Had Sanders and Rainbid been unlucky, or had they been picked as victims?
Regulations stated that there had to be a full suit of outerwear and an emergency kit at every access tunnel. What Rainbird actually found were the odd pieces from three different suits, a radio that didn’t transmit and received only static, a flashlight with a dying battery, and a bar of some unidentifiable substance that had once been food. Dried beef, perhaps. Rainbird didn’t sniff it too closely and avoided touching it.
She bullied Sanders into taking off her coat and bundled him into the outerwear. The coat was too short at the hem and the pants too large—his legs looked as if they’d gone swimming. She jammed the gas mask over his head and face, after giving the inside a wipe with her sleeve. The fungus inside had had a party and invited all its friends—it was probably covered in spores. She hoped the wiz wouldn’t go into allergic shock; he seemed the type who would.
Rainbird breathed in lungfuls of clean frosty air when they once again stood on the nightside. Even old Glew, glowering down at her, was a welcome sight. She raised her arms, rose up on her toes, stretching out her muscles and the kinks in her back and legs, listening for that brush of music against her ears.
Sanders ripped off his gas mask, sank to one knee, wheezing. “Can’t…breathe.” He gestured to the mask.
She stared at him, dismayed. So close. He couldn’t die now!
“You need to cover up. Your face is too exposed.” She was already winding a musty woolen muffler around his neck and ears and head. “Here, hold it to your mouth.” Sanders’ hand shook so much that she had to guide the mask into it and bend his elbow so his nose and mouth were angled close to the fungus.
Sanders sucked in one gasping breath, then broke out coughing. “Where are we?”
“Marker 44.”
“My lab…not far…”
“Where is it?”
“46.” A two-marker walk was nothing to her, but to him, in his condition?
It’s closer than our egg, closer than Headquarters. It’ll be
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