Transformation Space (19 page)

She cuddled the baby closer and kissed the top of her soft head.
Th-then let us not waste time.

The rescue ship’s umbilical connected with the life-ship, sending a shudder through the frame. As soon as the vibrations settled,
the tyros and Balbao released their restraints and scrambled for the hatch.

With the hiss of pressure change came a sight Balbao hadn’t expected – armed soldiers waiting on the other side.

‘Is that all of you?’ one barked.

Balbao did a quick head count. ‘Five. Yes.’

‘Through!’ the soldier ordered. ‘Quick.’

Miranda tripped on the hatch lip as she hurried. The soldier stepped forward and pulled her up roughly, shoving her on through.

‘Stop—’ Jise began to protest, but the guard grabbed his shirt and pulled the tyro hard against him, so their faces were almost
touching.

‘We’ve got minus time to get out of here before we get turned to gas. So get your arse in here or be left behind.’

The rest of them hurried, Balbao pushing Connit along.

The soldier didn’t even blink at Ra’s strange appearance; he just sealed the hatch and talked into his comm.

‘Take them to the buffer in the cargo hold. We’re going to res-shift soon.’

Balbao and the others were bundled down several levels and thrust into a containment room already filled with unkempt deckhands
wearing standard ship overalls.

‘Strap in, we’re moving.’ The soldiers followed them in and took their places on the fold-downs near the door.

‘’Bout time,’ one of the deckhands replied.

Jise helped Miranda to the one remaining vacant seat, and tried to compress her swelling ankle with his hands. Ra and Connit
gravitated towards them, but Balbao stayed near the door, shoulders set. He could feel the antagonism bristling from the deckhands.
No one knew if their next breath would be their last, yet the ship had gone out of its way to rescue them. This clearly hadn’t
been popular. Which captain, Balbao wondered, had made the call?

A tremor ran through the walls, and he heard the whine of the buffers initiating. He squatted down and leaned back against
the door. Even the best buffers could get you thrown about if you weren’t strapped in.

He clung to the deadlock handle as the cabin began to shudder. A quiet descended on the chamber. Jise grabbed his belly and
doubled over.

The vibration got worse, and Connit, who hadn’t taken hold of anything, bounced across the chamber to tangle in the feet of
one of the deckhands.

The dekkie lifted his feet clear and pushed Connit away, sending him over towards Balbao.

Balbao thrust out his foot for Connit to grab, and gradually pulled him in. There were dry laughs from the deckhands as Connit
clambered over him to get a
hold on the deadlock. Blood poured from the tyro’s nose, spattering about, and his eyes were already blackening.

The soldiers ignored it all, leaning back into their seats, eyes narrowed and faces grim as they listened to their comms.
Balbao wanted to ask them what they could hear. Was everything all right? Would they make it? They were stupid, unanswerable
questions, and he bit them back.

Instead, he let go with one hand and fished in his pocket, finding a plaskerchief and handing it to Connit. The man nodded
gratefully and held it against his nose.

Balbao tried to relax, tried not to think of the hundreds of things that could be happening.

The vibration got even worse, and he was forced to lock his feet under a lever. Miranda moaned as her swollen ankle was wrenched
from Jise’s grip and smacked into the floor.

The shaking became so intense that Balbao felt his teeth rattle. A terrifying pain shot down his neck and spine, and his desire
to piss was overwhelming. He couldn’t take much more of this. Nor could the ship. Even the deckhands were gripping their seats.

Then, suddenly, it was over, and everything became still.

The soldiers were out of their seats first, stretching their limbs and rotating their necks.

‘What the fuck was that?’ asked one of the dekkies.

‘That,’ replied a soldier, ‘was imperfect shift.’

Under the light of Araldis’s moons and a plethora of shining satellites, Trin laboured around the rocky crest of the mountain.
What should they name this island and these landmarks? It was their right to do so now, and it would mean easier communication
between them.

Pellegre, he thought, for the island. He would allow his carabinere, and maybe Cass Mulravey, to pick names for the caves,
springs and other landmarks. The island was his to christen; his and Djes’s, for in truth she had found it.

He stopped and caught his breath, listening in the dark. Something nagged persistently at the edge of his consciousness. Odd
little sounds came to him, but he could see nothing despite regular glances over his shoulder. Then he heard a faint rustle
of movement coming from below the next expanse of rock. An animal foraging for food?

He slid down the large slab and peered over its edge, hoping to put his mind at ease. This time he held his breath to listen.
His heart beat faster; there was something. He stared intently at the terrain below him, wondering which path to the bottom
would be easiest.

There. Where the rock folded over itself. A natural step. But getting there required sliding close to the
edge, and would he be able to get back up the same way? Unlikely. He shook himself. Of course there’d be another way up, even
if it took a little longer.

He glanced into the sky, which teemed with bright orbiting objects. First light was only a few hours away. He must look now
or wait another night.

Something urged him to pursue it now. Another night and everything might change. Who knew what the mass arrival of ships meant?
There was no time for hesitation.

He slid closer to the edge, his feet dangling over, fingers searching for grooves and crevices in the slab. At full stretch,
he thought he could reach the folded rock beneath, which would act as a step. Slowly, he extended one leg. His toe connected
with the surface, and he began to ease his weight down onto it. Perspiration leaked into his robe; he felt it pooling in the
crevices of his skin, and his heart thundered.

A scuffling noise behind him. He jerked around to look, trying to stay balanced.

Hands planted firmly into his back.

The force of the push sent him over the edge. He paddled his legs and arms for a brief moment as he fell. Then he slammed
hard into the ground below.

The sound brought him round, an insistent noise, and irritating warm splashes across his cheek. Trin opened his eyes to nearly
full daylight. He lay only a breath away from water running over a rock.

He tried to raise his head to look properly, but his neck muscles refused to comply. Even so, a number of things registered:
he’d been pushed from the rock above;
he was injured but alive; and he would die from heat exposure in a matter of minutes if he didn’t find cover.

The latter realisation took priority over everything, and he rolled over, looking for options. The water was coming from underneath
the overhang of the slab he had fallen from, a strong enough flow to carry it down the hill before it drained through a lattice
of rocks.

Crawl under the overhang. Crawl or die.

Bringing his knees up, he used his feet to push him forward. One leg felt odd, numb below the knee but with sensation still
in his foot. He didn’t stop to look. It wouldn’t matter, not if he was still lying in this spot in a few more minutes.

Sharp rocks gouged his stomach underneath his robe, and pebbles scraped his hands. His fellalo was so worn now that it barely
cooled or gave protection. And there was blood. His blood, though he was unsure where he was bleeding. And the aching. Back.
Head. All over.

Don’t think about it. Crawl. Crawl or die.

The first fingers of direct sunlight burned into his legs as he dragged his torso into the shade. He rolled onto his back
and jack-knifed his knees into his stomach, then rolled again until his whole body was in shade.

He lay like that, slipping in and out of a consciousness, for a long time.

Concussion, he told himself when some clarity returned. He made an effort to sit up. This time his neck and back obeyed, and
he managed to lean himself against the rock. The spring was within arm’s reach, so he leaned over and cupped a mouthful. It
tasted tepid but clean. After several handfuls he felt a little revived.

Who had pushed him? The hands in his back had been decisive, and large. Not a woman’s hands, and not someone who’d had second
thoughts.

Innis Mulravey. Had to be.

Anger burned in him. How dare the filthy ’esque attempt to murder him?
I will have him exiled. No. Killed.

Cass Mulravey would resist, but on this he would not weaken.

Trin opened his eyes. What had he been thinking about? Where was—? He blinked. Water, rocks and blinding, scorching sunlight
only just past his feet. His heart pounded and he sat upright.

Calming breaths helped him better observe his surroundings, to think. Leah was on the wane. He’d been asleep most of the day,
and his throat felt raw and his skin dry. Dehydration.

He flopped over to the running water and submerged his face, taking deep gulps. Coming up for air, he repeated the action
several times until his belly distended with water.

Within a short time be began to sweat profusely, and the robe tried to cool his overheated body. His heat tolerance was much
greater now from the constant exposure, but nothing could stand the direct sunlight on Araldis. Nothing except the Saqr.

For the next few hours he stayed under the overhang and practised moving his limbs, testing them to see if he could walk.
The numbness below his knee was still there, and would hamper his climbing ability.
I need a crutch.

He looked out from his rock shelter. Immediately
below him lay another band of rocks, but below that stood an odd cluster of stunted trees. He would crawl to them when it
was dark and find something to lean on, then return to the spring and drink his fill before starting back to the caves.

He considered that plan. Would his leg slow him down too much? Would he be caught in the sun again? Perhaps he should wait
for Juno Genarro and Djes to come for him? With their help, the trip back would be much easier. And they would come for him.
He knew that. But how long until they did? And what trouble would Innis Mulravey have caused with his lie that the Principe
had maybe perished?

Options and strategies stacked up in his mind as the day finally darkened and lost some heat. As Leah sank away, he made a
decision. The trees not only offered the makings of a walking stick, but the possibility of edible roots. He was hungry now,
the rumbling in his belly overtaking even the thumping in his temples and the shooting pain along the leg that wasn’t numb.

He fumbled for one of the two pods in his pocket and chewed a piece from it. Within a short time he felt the tingle of stimulant.
Levering onto his hands and knees, keeping more weight on the uninjured knee, he crawled down with painstaking care. A slip
this time would mean his end.

Without the moonlight, progress was slower than he’d anticipated. He reached the first few bushes just as Semantic cracked
the horizon with a sliver of moonshine. Exhaustion forced him to rest a while before he could attempt to find a stick.

He lay, examining the trees, discerning their difference
from those on their side of the mountain. These seemed more lush by comparison.

He reached up to a trunk and stripped a section of bark away. Sap leaked freely onto his palm. He sniffed it, tempted to suck
its nutrients, but the scent was unappealing, like dead, crushed lig.

Using the bark, he gouged near the tree’s base, searching for its roots. They were shallow, and pliable enough for him to
break off a piece. He brushed it off and bit into it. It was hard and earthy, but he forced it down, gagging on the taste
of dirt.

For a moment his stomach rebelled, the pod’s stimulant effects rejecting the notion of food, but he swallowed repeatedly until
the sickness faded. Within a short time, he began to focus better, and his limbs gained strength. He was able to stand and
reach for a lower branch. Tearing it off, he broke the twigs from it, modelling it to the size he needed. It seemed strong
enough to take his weight and balance him against the lack of sensation around his knee.

Satisfied that it would do, he hobbled to the edge of the grove. The moon was high now, and lit the direction he wanted to
go. He glanced back to the spring and the rocky overhang, memorising the surrounding landmarks.

Innis Mulravey’s ill intent had brought some reward with it. They could have searched for weeks before locating this spring,
which was hidden beneath the rock. Now they wouldn’t have to descend the mountain to the beach spring and risk encountering
the giant ligs.

Trin grimaced. He wouldn’t let the discovery count in Innis’s favour. Attempted murder of a Principe
required a dire penalty. The carabinere would see to it.

Determination settled in his belly, but as he began to limp forward, something glanced against his face. His dashed it away
and walked on. Within a few steps, though, it happened again, and again. He caught one of the objects and examined it.
Lig.

He heard a noise, a kind of crackling accompanied by a hiss. A shadow appeared over the mountain top, obscuring the moon,
and then descended in jerky stages. A swarm of normal sized ligs, heading directly for the grove in which he stood.

Instinct drove Trin to the ground. He lay on his stomach and covered his face, but the ligs engulfed him, crawling inside
his robe and hood, all over his skin, searching and probing between his closed fingers.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly; they were mere insects, he reasoned.
Nothing dangerous like the giant ligs from the spring at the bottom of the mountain. They will move on.