Valor's Trial (46 page)

“Is that pain?”

“It's laughter, kid.” Now Bertecnic had stilled, Werst slid to the ground. “Ressk?”

“No the fukking door isn't open yet, Corporal.”

Since the durlin seemed likely to stay where she was and the two males were looking a little crazily overprotective, Kyster stepped back and took a look around.

The landing site, like the prison, seemed to be mostly underground. Seemed like kind of a dumb idea to him, since it looked like most of the planet's underground was liquid rock, but maybe he was missing something. There was a wall, an almost identical door, and some scary scorch marks. Scary because the nearest lava flow was about 300 meters away, and if a firestorm could extend this far . . .

The three bugs were huddled just to the left of the door.

“Are they dead?”

Werst moved closer and poked one.

The durlin barked a command an idiot could have translated.
Don't poke the bugs.

Kyster limped up behind Werst, rolling onto the side of his bad foot to avoid the blisters, and peered over his shoulder. “Their gills are moving.”

“Their what?” Werst demanded.

“The feathery things on their sides are gills,” Ressk grunted, shovingthe point of his knife under the cover on the door controls pounding the hilt with his fist. “It means they're breathing. Shit!”

Kyster ducked as a shard of obsidian whizzed by. “The knife broke?”

“Give the kid a prize,” Ressk snarled, jiggling the three-centimeter piece still jammed in the cover.

Rolling his eyes, Kyster returned to the durlin's side, pointed to Bertecnic—only because the darker male was closer—and mimed claws ripping the cover off the panel. The durlin snorted, and barked a command.

Bertecnic shoved Ressk out of the way and ripped the panel cover off the wall.

“No really,” Werst snickered, “give the kid a prize.”

“Shut up.” Ressk retrieved the point of his knife and peered up into the control panel. “Looks just like the other one.”

“Good.”

“Technical Sergeant Gucciard opened the other one.”

“Less good.”

Kyster watched, confused, as one of the bugs slowly toppled over. A second later the ground began to shake.

“Gunny!”

“I feel it!”

And with no more warning, the skimmer path dropped around eight centimeters and angled about thirty degrees left. One off-balance stride later, it snapped back up two centimeters. Those who'd managed to remain standing during the first movement were thrown off their feet during the second.

Nearly deafened by the crack of rock breaking behind them, Torin ignored the bleeding scrape down the length of her right leg and rolled up onto one knee. The blast of heat nearly flattened her again and she braced herself, one hand on the ground, as the landscape settled.

“Fuk.”

She took Mike's offered hand and let him haul her to her feet. “You have a way with words, Technical Sergeant.”

Six meters behind them, the path came to an abrupt end at the edge of a fissure already a meter across and still spreading, the rock groaning as the heat forced it apart. From the ruddy glow and the sudden rise in temperature, the lava flow was dangerously near the surface.

“Good thing it's behind us,” Kichar murmured, rising carefully to her feet.

“The gods are on our side,” Everim agreed. His eyes narrowed as Kichar glanced over at him. “Our gods on our side. Not yours.”

“We don't need your gods. We have plenty.”

“Play nice, children.” Torin hauled Darlys upright in turn and leaned her toward Kichar. “Durlave? Problem.”

Freenim was still on the ground, crouched over Merinim who was panting and holding her face. No, not her face . . .

“Filter snagged when she went down,” Freenim said without looking up. “I patch with ours, but it is not holding in the heat.”

“Here.” Torin pulled one of their slap-on filters from her vest and passed it down. “Try this; it's a little bigger because of the Krai's nose ridges.”

He gazed at the filter for a moment, lying limp over his palm, then up at Torin. “Yesterday, we were enemies.”

She shrugged. “And we may be tomorrow. Today, we've jumped out of the same frying pan.”

“Gunny, yesterday . . .”

“It's a metaphor, Kichar. Just something we say to remind ourselves that there's a war on.”

The young Marine rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. “I thought you'd forgotten.”

The look she exchanged with Freenim spoke of what they'd both seen over the years. “Not likely.”

“But . . .”

“There's a war on, Kichar, but we're not fighting it today.”

Merinim gingerly turned her head from side to side, hand up and ready to pinch the tear closed again.“Holding better, but I would not trust it to sudden moves.”

“So we'll move a bit slower.” Torin took a swallow of water, sweat dribbling down her side under the vest as she raised her arm and pushed a fold of the filter into her mouth. “It's not . . .

The second crack wasn't quite as loud, but something told Torin that was only because it came from farther away. The echoes bouncing off both higher ridges and the low cloud cover suggested it had been one hell of a noise.

“Gunny . . .”

Torin really didn't like the sound in Mashona's voice.

“. . . I think that was the prison.”

“Cracking?”

“There's a black line. There.” Eyes squinted nearly closed, Mashona pointed back the way they'd come. “Near the corner. It wasn't there before.”

Even mimicking Mashona's squint, Torin could barely see the prison let alone a crack. “I'll have to take your . . . Mashona. Look at the sky left of the prison and a bit beyond. What do you see?”

“The light against the clouds is yellow instead of orange.”

“The light against the
bottom
of the clouds. Durlave!” Torin whirled in place. Merinim was up on her feet now, one hand against the patch on the filter. “We haven't time to go careful. Get a filter over her mouth and nose! Another over her closed eyes! You and Everim keep her on her feet, she'll be running blind!”

“That is unnecess . . .”

“There's a firestorm coming!”

Merinim took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and ripped open the damaged filter. Freenim quickly slapped the others on.

“To stick in this heat,” he began.

“We won't be out here long,” Torin snapped, grabbing Darlys' arm. “Let's move people! Spend everything you've got!”

Taking small careful steps across the skimmer pad—walking hurt but standing hurt more as the paving brought up new blisters—Kyster made a wide circle around Helic'tin's back end until he could look up into the Polina's face. Or, given the angle, up into the Polina's nose. His head was back, the wide nostrils were flared, and he was staring along the skimmer path through narrowed eyes.

Curious about just what Helic'tin could smell through the filter— because the only
serley
thing Kyster could smell was his own feet cooking—he took up a position of his own at the edge of the pad and opened his nose ridges. He slammed them closed after a couple of seconds when it felt like his brain had been dehydrated and turned into jerky.

A big hand closed roughly around his shoulder, the two fingers on one side, the two thumbs on the other, and pulled his attention off the packs of jerky he used to be able to buy on MidSector Station.

“What?”

Helic'tin growled something and lifted his other arm to point.

“I can't smell it!”

The second growl needed no translation. He jabbed at the air with one clawed finger.

The skimmer path. Rock. Fissures. Heat shimmer. Orange clouds. Yellow clouds . . . Yellow clouds? Maybe it was what passed on this shithole of a planet for dawn although Kyster wouldn't actually say there'd been a night. It had never actually gotten dark and . . .

The yellow pattern shifted. For a minute, it looked as though the clouds were on fire.

Fire.

“Firestorm!”

Werst met him halfway back to the door. “What are you talking about, kid?”

Mouth open, unable to suck in enough air, he gasped the word again. “Firestorm!”

They turned together to stare at the wall. At the scorch marks well over their heads.

“Fuk! Ressk!” Werst whirled and raced back to the panel. “Get the damned door open!”

“Working on it!”

“Yeah, well, work faster! If I'm going to be roasted, I want to be eaten after!”

Still standing at the edge of the platform, Helic'tin made a noise that spun Kyster back around. The nearest ridge had gained what looked like a fringed edge. And the fringe was moving.

“I see them! The others!”

“Where?”

It took Kyster a minute to realize why Werst was staring up into the sky. “Not those others, our others! There! On the path! Hey!” He waved both hands above his head. “Over here! Gunnery Sergeant Kerr!”

Sucking air through her teeth, amazed that it could actually be hotter than it was, Torin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She'd stopped sweating, and that was bad, knew she was dehydrating but couldn't let Darlys go long enough to grab her canteen. The di'Taykan was still moving her feet, but Torin and Kichar were holding most of her weight.

At that, she was doing better than Watura whose feet were dragging, boots scraping against the rock in a rhythm that suggested he was still trying, still conscious, but only just.

She could hear Freenim calling cadence as Merinim ran full out with her hand locked in the back of his uniform. That was trust. The Druin were out in front now, the distance widening enough that space between Freenim's voice and the slate and her implant were becoming a distraction.

“Ressk!”

He slapped Werst's hand away. “Stop fukking distracting me!”

With all three Krai grouped around the panel, Kyster's head pivoted between the path and the door. He could hear the roar of the approaching firestorm. Tried to convince himself he could hear the pounding of boots on gravel. Couldn't even though they were close enough now he could make out separate people. Or separate clumps of people.

“Ressk! If that door isn't open when they get here . . .”

“We'll all roast together!” Ressk's snarl cut Werst off although he kept his eyes locked on the panel. “I know! Shut up!”

Helic'tin twisted to look back over his shoulder and yelled something. The durlin yelled back, and Kyster didn't need to understand the language to know she'd told him that whatever he'd said first was a dumbass idea.

Then the durlin yelled again as Helic'tin spun around one rear foot, charged across the skimmer pad and shoved Ressk and Werst aside, rearing back . . .

He was going to slash the panel.

Kyster could see it as clearly as if it was happening in front of him.

He was going to slash the panel and destroy it and the door would never be opened and they'd all die. The gunny would die.

What would the gunny do?

He threw himself in under the raised forelegs, and punched the Polinta as hard as he could in the balls.

Helic'tin screamed and twisted back on himself.

The blow landed just under Kyster's shoulder, lifted him up and flung him high enough in the air that he had time to twist and see the ground approaching before impact.

The door wasn't open.

And Torin could feel the heat behind them raising blisters on the backs of her bare legs. “Mike, go!”

“I've got him, Sarge!” Watura dipped sideways as Mashona took his weight and, relieved of the burden, Mike began to pull ahead, arms pumping, boots digging.

Darlys was still more or less on her feet, but Watura was going to collapse and take Mashona down in another minute.

“Take him, Gunny,” Kichar gasped. “I can . . . hold her . . . until Mash . . . until she gets here.”

Moving up alongside, Torin got a good two handfuls of Watura's combats—actually, Mashona's combats—and yelled, “Mashona, switch!”

As he fell toward her, she ducked forward and lifted him up across her shoulders wondering when the gravity had gotten stronger. “Fukker's gained weight!”

Mike was almost at the door. They still had a chance.

Kyster struggled to sit as he heard boots pounding across the skimmer pad. Arms flailing, his hand hit something solid, and he used it to pull himself up, realizing too late it he'd been lying tucked between the durlin's front legs and was holding a handful of damp fur. Then Technical Sergeant Gucciard raced past, stumbling to a panting halt next to the control box.

“Sarge! It won't make the connections!”

“Won't?” The sergeant gasped.

“Won't,” Ressk insisted, “there's something missing!”

Bracing himself with one hand flat against the wall, the sergeant stared into the panel. “Oh, that's not good!”

“We are almost with no time!” the durlin yelled.

The slate! Technical Sergeant Gucciard had the slate on his vest, Kyster realized as more boots pounded across the platform and the four Druin arrived. Kyster turned to see Mashona and Kichar carrying Darlys, Gunnery Sergeant Kerr with Watura over her shoulders right behind, and behind her . . .

“Sergeant! The firestorm!” Kyster thought that was Sanati.

He didn't believe it could get hotter, but it had. If the sergeant didn't get the door open, they were all going to die.