Emile and the Dutchman (21 page)

It would have been nice to have lifters for the last few yards—by then, I hoped we'd be far enough away from the searchers that I'd be able to clear the engine and raise ship before any pursuit could arrive.

But the electronics . . . and the linings of the lifter's nozzles were not really something I wanted lying around loose. Not intact, that is.

"Wait for me in the rain, the two of you." I waited until they left, then set both controls to full blast, and rigged my lifter's igniter to time-delay for almost two seconds. I set a teetering deadfall over the ignite button and manually cracked the main valves on both, then carefully covered them over with a layer of soft dirt. With a bit of luck, none of the locals would spot them until we were airborne—and then I'd have kicked off a probe toward this cave.

But if something did poke around in the meantime, the slightest jar would start the fuel and oxy out of the tanks, and then light it a scant two seconds later. Which should take some steam out of the pursuit.

I stepped out into the rain after them.

Condition Blue, Dutchman
,
I thought.
Attack expected.
Then:
Fuck it: make it Condition Black.

Condition Black: Attack initiated
.
You stay the fuck out of my way, you slimy salamanders. Or you're all dead.

I knew it was bullshit—I couldn't even take them one-on-one, and I'd run out of wires long before they ran out of schrift.

But it made me feel better, anyway.

The first few minutes were the easiest. We were pelted by raindrops only the size of grapes, barely moving at the speed of cannonballs. After less then a hundred meters, I knew it was impossible to make it while breathing through the filters—micropore filters weren't intended to filter out liters and liters of water—so I threw away my mask and invited Donny to do the same.

It wasn't going to matter. The rain was washing away any pollen in the air, and I was more worried about drowning in my mask than I was about getting an allergic reaction to the native histidines.

We climbed higher, into the thunder and lightning.

Every step became more difficult than the last for Donny. Even during the infrequent breaks I was forced to call, his chest heaved up and down like a stormy sea.

He wanted to stop, and when the lightning flashes illuminated his face, I could see him pleading with me to call a long rest, but we couldn't stop. Hischteeel did the best that it could and half-carried Donny during the rare level stretches, but when it came time to climb up rock faces, even its clawed toes couldn't get enough of a purchase on the slippery rocks to do more than support itself.

But at least we were unspotted, so far.

It couldn't last forever, and it didn't. Less than a hundred meters short of where the Dutchman had landed the shuttle—and that's a hundred meters vertical, not horizontal—I was trying to figure out how to take the last rock face, when I heard an alien hiss from behind me, and spun to see a full-sized schrift ducking down behind a boulder.

"Move ahead, you two," I shouted over the thunder, slapping Donny on the shoulder and giving Hischteeel a push. The two of them ducked down behind a boulder, and I followed, drawing my wiregun out of the shoulder holster.

Ninety wires may sound like a lot, but on a full auto, the gun can fire that many in one point eight seconds; I set it for five-shot bursts and looked out from the boulder.

Downslope, at least three of the leathery beasts were making their way toward us, and climbing faster than I could have, even on my first wind. I sent a burst their way, and saw one clutch at its belly and fall a hundred meters while the others ducked for cover.

"Shit." I thumbed my transmitter on. "Okay, Donny," I said, hoping that he could hear through his bone-inducers over the crash of the thunder, "we're back on the air. Lock onto your freak, and lock your mike on."

"Yes. Sir."

I could hear him panting. "Turn the squelch up."

"Yes, sir."

I thumbed for the Dutchman's freak. "Major? Can you hear me?"

Take your pick; the recordings say that it was less than one second real time before the Dutchman answered me, but it was a million years Emile time.

"Yes."

"Coming in. But we've got trouble—Condition Blue. If you're not recording on all freaks, you'd better start now. And stand by the panic button."

"Who . . . the fuck do you think you are giving orders, Emmy?"

"Who do I think I am, shithead?" I forced a laugh. "I'm the senior officer not on the sick list, Mister Norfeldt. Now, you will say yes
sir,
then you will shut up and demonstrate some willing compliance with lawful orders, or I'll have you facing charges of insubordination, Dutchman, after I feed your fucking wooden shoes to you—assuming I don't burn you down for mutiny in the face of the enemy.
You understand me, Mister?"

He barely hesitated. "Understood."

I beckoned Hischteeel to me. I looked at its huge fingers, and at the wiregun's triggerguard, measuring them by eye. No, its finger wouldn't fit. And besides, even if Hischteeel could hold one, Donny was likely to be a better shot than an alien that had never held a pistol in its life.

"Translate, Donny. And listen up—" Thumbing the wiregun to single shots, I ducked out from behind the boulder and fired off a few quick ones, quickly answered by a pair of shots from the schrift below. I don't know what kind of slugthrowers they had, but one nicked a chip out of the boulder that missed my eye by a centimeter.

I ducked back, and slipped in a puddle, almost losing my balance. Sheets of rain pounded me, trying to slam me down. I forced myself back to my feet, in a half-crouch next to Donny.

"Listen up. We don't have much of a chance, and we've got zero chance if I can't get up to the shuttle and get the engine cleared, or at least get at the weapons locker.

"So I go, and you hold the fort. If you can."
If you survive long enough for me to get to the weapons, locker, Donny,
I thought,
I'll come back for you.
But I couldn't say that. It would have been a lie.

Telepaths are never to be armed; it's in the regulations.

I handed him the wiregun. He took it in his right hand and held it awkwardly; he'd never held one before.

There wasn't any choice. It was him or me, and I was the pilot. He was expendable, I wasn't.

"Do the best you can," I said. "In the meantime, I want you running a constant translation over your transmitter—words, phrases, anything from the local language."

"Yes, sir."

I swallowed. No, I couldn't take the chance: it had to be said. There was just too much knowledge in his head. "Donny, translate for me: Hischteeel, Donny is not to be taken alive. It would be very bad for the Contact Service schtann if that happens. Understood?"

Donny barely hesitated before hissing at the schrift.

Hischteeel nodded slowly. "Yesss. Unnerstannn. Hischteeel keschun?"

I couldn't tell him; I couldn't. I owed it to the schrift, which thought of itself as my brother, as more than my brother.

But I couldn't tell him the truth. "You are to be taken alive. And you are to tell the other schtanns, the sharp knives, nothing except your name and your schtann, that of the Contact Service.
Nothing
else. Do you understand me?"

Name, rank, and serial number, Hischteeel. That's all.

Donny hissed at it, then took a long look at me. He stood silent for a short moment, then nodded briskly. "Yes, sir. Understood. By both of us." He actually smiled. "Good luck, Emile. You'd better get going."

The schrift forced a nod. It looked strange, unnatural for the creature to bend its head forward and back, but it nodded. "Hischteeel unerstan."

I'd often wondered what it felt like to send brave men out to die. It's strange: it was the worst thing I'd ever had to do, but mixed with the horror of what I was doing was burning pride that I'd been associated with Donald Kiri N'Damo, Lieutenant, TWCS.

And Hischteeel.

I turned the squelch on my transmitter down to zero, locked it on transmit, and stripped it off, dropping it to the ground. Transmitters are tough.

I slipped away into the storm. There was only a hundred-meter stretch to climb.

While the schrift killed my brothers, I scampered to safety.

Up on the ledge, the rain and wind whipped hard at my face as I hit the annunciator button, pounding on the hatch. "Open it the fuck up, dammit!"

It snapped open; I stepped into sudden peace of the inner hatch and shouted at the Dutchman to open the inner door. This wasn't time for any kind of decontam protocol.

There was a trail of black, congealed blood on the steel floor. It hit me: the Dutchman had said he'd launched a balloon, and in order to do that he would have had to, at least, crawl to the door, pull the cord, and toss the package outside.

As the inner door slowly wheezed open, I squeezed into the cabin.

"How . . . how they hanging', Emmy?"

The Dutchman looked bad. Twenty-plus hours in the couch with a compound fracture of the knee hadn't left the fat man well off. A crude tourniquet was wrapped around his thigh; the leg was swollen and his khakis were caked with black blood below. But care for the leg could wait until we were topside.

His eyes started to roll up; I leaped over to the pilot's couch where he lay and quickly disabled his deadman switch. It was a neat idea: two springy contacts from the comm panel, held apart by the Dutchman's thumb. But we didn't need it, not anymore.

"It's going to be okay, Major," I said. "I'll get the engine clear." That was the first thing I'd checked: the engine. The jagged piece of steel was jammed in, but maybe I could pry it out.

"The . . . esper. And the lizard." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "They . . . didn't make it."

"I know."

"I . . . heard. I heard N'Damo die, heard the other lizards try to make Histeel talk."

"Hischteeel, Major. Lieutenant Hischteeel. 'All members of the Contact Service are officers,' Major. Look it up; you'll find the words on the first fucking page of
Contact Service Rules, Regulations, and Proprieties,
Major. So you say its name with respect: it was Lieutenant Hischteeel, TWCS."

The Dutchman's eyes widened. I didn't have time to explain, and it wouldn't do any good for the Dutchman to suffer any longer, so I grabbed a hypo from the nearest medikit and gave him a full dose of morphine before I snatched up a crowbar and started for the hatch, reaching for the nearest wiregun.

i
stopped myself. No. Better: tucking the crowbar under my arm, I took the Korriphila 10mm out of the weapons locker, slammed a clip into the butt, and pumped a round into the chamber before slipping a pair of extra clips into my pocket.

When I go, I'm going to be accompanied by the thunder of gunpowder, not the hissing of a wiregun.

The rain was worse than it had been. One eye on the ledge, I made my way to the rear of the shuttle.

The jagged piece of metal was wedged in tight, but it was jagged, and there was—barely—enough room to get the tip of the crowbar between the metal and the lining of the engine. I tried prying gently, not daring to risk chipping the lining, but nothing happened. It didn't give at all.

Even over the pounding of the storm, I could hear a scrabbling on the rocks below.

"Fuck it." I tucked the pistol in my belt, stripped off my E-suit gloves, and then wrapped my fingers around the crowbar and pulled, hard.

At first, nothing happened. I pulled harder, and then harder, until spots started to dance before my eyes and I thought I was going to black out.

Move, you sonofabitch.
I pulled like I was Arthur, going for the Sword in the Stone.

The jagged metal squealed and popped out.

Wiping rainwater and sweat from my stinging eyes, I tossed the crowbar aside and drew the Korriphila, thumbing the safety off. Theoretically, I should have checked on damage to the nozzle lining, but there wasn't time. Besides, who cared? There wasn't another choice. As the old saying goes, if you're drowning and someone throws you an anchor, grab it.

I dropped to my belly and peered out over the ledge. Three schrift were working their way up, only a dozen or so meters below. I could have made it back into the shuttle, and maybe lifted before they reached the ledge, but that was only a maybe.

Besides, it only seemed right that Hischteeel and Donny get some sort of salute. I stood and gripped the Korriphila in both hands, and then pulled the trigger, sending them lead and flame until the gun clicked empty.

It only took a moment to reload. I kept firing until I was out of ammunition.

The Dutchman must have had the constitution of a horse; he was groggy but awake when I got back in the shuttle, slammed the doors behind me, and then buckled myself into his couch with one hand while I started the computer on the launch sequence with the other.

"Emile . . ."

"Shut up, Dutchman. Von du Mark's driving, and he's busy."

I'd done it before; it is possible to use charges intended to blow away stuck landing pods to bring the shuttle's nose up to horizontal, instead of firing up the belly jets. It saves fuel, and according to the computer, we had less than a klick-second to spare, unless—and I swear to God it said this—"you choose to wait for fifty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds for a better launch window for the upside stage."

Wait for fifty-seven minutes?

I swear I laughed as I punched the pods away and fired up the engines. The shuttle jerked itself to vertical.

Engines roaring a farewell to Donny, Akiva, and Hischteeel, the shuttle lifted into the storm; I barely remembered to fire off a probe to blow up the cave where I'd left the lifters.

Magic time?

No; I just flew the damn thing.

* * *

A few hours, a shower, a bit of work by the autodoc, and a liter of wine made a huge difference in how the Dutchman looked. As we left the dirtball behind us, he lolled back in his chair, still a bit groggy from the drugs. His broken knee was encased in a huge plaster cast, the tiny monitor the autodoc had left on it pulsing a constant green.