Land of the Dead (22 page)

“We’ll need our luggage,” Hummingbird interjected, radiating an aura of perfect reasonability. “It will only take a moment, and save time later.” Juarez just stared in bafflement. The
nauallis
slowly lowered his hands, gathered up his spare mantle, the hand comp, and gestured for Gretchen to precede him out of the control space. Both marine corporals—shipguns at the ready—followed along, a little nonplussed themselves.

Behind them, Juarez shook his head, finger to his earbug. “Are you sure,
Chu-sa
? This whole ship stinks of an infiltrator.…
Hai, hai
. They’re on their way.”

Clattering down the gangway from the
Moulins
, half-blinded by the brilliant glare of the spotlights illuminating the enormous hold, Gretchen shifted her duffle and backpack, feeling the straps dig into her shoulder. “But the native people that lived nearby said they had seen a bright angel escape from her body. So they built a shrine so they could pray to her for good luck.”

Hummingbird said nothing, breath frosting in the chill air, his attention fixed on a petite figure in dress-whites looking down upon them from a glassite window halfway up the side of the bay. His two travel bags—made from some heavy synthetic and badly worn, some holes patched over with dozens of transfer stickers—hung heavy in his hands as he walked.

“I like that story,” he replied, after a moment. The marines keyed open a passenger door and they stepped aboard the
Naniwa
.

*   *   *

The overlook was entirely lacking any amenities—no chairs, no soft couches, no dispenser filled with cold drinks. No heat to speak of, as the cargo hold was actually part of the exterior hull of the warship, which carried the shipskin, weapons, boat and cargo bays, and so on. The secondary hull—probably twenty meters inward from their current position—would be warm and toasty. Gretchen looked around, sighed, and parked her duffle and backpack against the foot of a control console. Then Anderssen leaned back against the metal, arms crossed, and nodded politely to the Imperial ship captain.
This one looks very familiar, where … ah now, it’s Captain Hadeishi’s second! I haven’t seen her since that embassy reception on Jagan.

Kosh
ō
’s attention was wholly upon Green Hummingbird, and she radiated an icy distaste which matched the room temperature. The strength of her animosity was refreshing to Gretchen, for the Nisei woman evinced not the slightest fear, respect, or deference for the old Crow.
That is more like it!

“I see,” the
Chu-sa
said, lifting her chin slightly. “Now everything is perfectly clear to me.”

“Excellent,” Hummingbird replied, setting down his own luggage. “Then I need not explain. We require a private room with bath, shipnet access, and transport to the science station I believe the Mirror Which Reveals is operating not too far from here. And quietly, too,” Hummingbird said. “This is a privy matter.”

“Is it?” Kosh
ō
gave him a steely glare. “I am entirely familiar with
my
operational orders, Hummingbird-
tzin
. Your … faction … is not welcome here—your presence forbidden.” The faintest smile threatened to disturb the cold perfection of her lips. “I could have you both shot, buying myself the favor of the Mirror with the same flechette. A bargain, I think!”

Hummingbird became very still. Gretchen watched, wide-eyed, wondering if the sense of sharp, coiled fury she felt from the Imperial officer was apparent to the
nauallis
.
Damn,
Anderssen thought,
her fingertips are on her sidearm! Is she going to chop him down right here?

The old Méxica’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his stance subtly. Then, apparently rallying himself, he said: “Your
sensei
still lives,
Chu-sa
, as I promised. And he prospers.”

“Proof?” Susan tilted her head slightly to one side, almond-shaped eyes bare slits gleaming with reflected light from the boat-bay.

“My word upon it.”

“Utterly without value.” Kosh
ō
’s free hand made a chopping motion. Then she glanced over at Gretchen. “Dr. Anderssen, a pleasure to see you again. Do you know what is happening here? What all of this is about?”

“I do,” Hummingbird interrupted at once.

The
Chu-sa
flashed a tiny, cold smile.

Gretchen wanted to smile, too, but thought it wise to mind her own business. She could feel Hummingbird’s anger starting to rise. She knew perfectly well the
nauallis
did not like to barter.
He needs something very badly, or he would not be prepared to horse-trade
. She sat down on her duffle—the console was like ice—and reached into her jacket for a Gogozen bar.
Maybe I should record this,
she mused,
for posterity.

SOMEWHERE IN THE
KUUB

Hadeishi sat in deep gloom, only the barest slivers of light shining on the pipes overhead. One boot was edged against the fuel valve at the top of an enormous tank of reaction mass, the other tucked under him as a makeshift seat. De Molay, tucked into the hammock again, was only a hand-span away, almost invisible in the darkness. The string net was suspended from a series of overhead pipes. Below them, intermittent sounds echoed up from the engineering spaces as two Khaid engineers banged around, trying to decipher the
Wilful
’s control systems. Hadeishi had put the rest of their supplies—everything he could gather up in the time allowed—in another bag, which also hung from a lanyard.

A burst of harsh chatter rose up to them, and the entire ship shuddered with a sharp, reverberating
clang-clang-clang
. De Molay shifted, and Mitsuharu heard her whisper: “We’ve separated.”

He nodded, judging the sounds the same way. Their suspicions were confirmed a few moments later when the entire ship shivered awake and the pumps attached to the fuel tanks hummed into action.
We’re on maneuvering drive,
Mitsuharu thought.

His fingertips reached out, confirmed the location of the machete, and then he leaned close enough to the freighter captain to feel her faint, thready breath on the side of his face. “They are preparing to take us into hyperspace.”

Hadeishi twisted around, putting his back to her, and held up a comp he’d appropriated from one of the equipment lockers. The tiny screen displayed a telemetry feed relayed from the navigational system. The whole Khaid fleet was in motion.

“So many ships,” whispered De Molay. “That doesn’t seem like a raiding party.…”

Mitsuharu shook his head. “This is a fleet. The first I’ve ever seen—or heard—of the Khaid assembling. Something—larger—is underway.”

On the display, Khaiden icons shook out into new positions.

“That is an odd formation,” De Molay wheezed, trying to find a comfortable position. The hammock swayed a little.

“They’re preparing for a hot combat jump,” Hadeishi replied softly, feeling a trickle of adrenaline start up in his heart. Old familiar feelings—ones he’d thought lost, now welcome in their return—flooded him, watching the alien ships form up. “Heavies pentahedral at the core, lights orbiting at the edge of their combat interlink range. But … what is there to attack out here? No planets, no systems … not so much as a mining enclave in range.”

De Molay snorted softly. She had recovered some color. “The hidden places are always busy, Nisei. There is an Imperial research station. Five or six light-years from here, I would venture. A secret … but not well kept, as we see.”

He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You were bound there yourself?”

“The
Wilful
? Not directly.” She tapped him gently on the shoulder with gnarled fingertips. “
Your
destination, Captain Hadeishi, is a little grander … one of our sister ships should have been waiting for us at that moon. I wonder if they suffered our fate, only earlier. Unless they were delayed and have yet to reach rendezvous.”

Mitsuharu breathed deeply, calming a sudden burst of outrage.
So—I’ve been deceived and carted about like a sack of meal! Hmmm … but who would want me out in this desolation?

“Ah, see? The Khaid fleet is underway.” De Molay’s voice was a bare whisper.

Indeed, the enemy was rippling out of sight into hyperspace.

“Three waves. Then us.”
In this soup
, Hadeishi thought,
they’ll be on top of the station without the slightest warning.

He thumbed through a series of other views, tapping each ship’s system in turn. The hyperspace coil reported coordinates for transit had been locked in and the freighter was quickly approaching gradient. Mitsuharu’s eyes narrowed, but a quick flip back to the navigation feed confirmed what he’d expected—hoped!—when he’d seen the Khaid combat pattern.

We’re plotted for a different vector. For some frontier depot with a prize crew aboard. Useless in a fight, but too valuable for these scavengers to leave behind. Excellent.

He thumbed a set of commands into the hand comp, one ear listening to the banter of the Khaid technicians below them at the main engineering panel. A red glyph began to flash on the little display and he covered the icon with his thumb, ready to press.

The hyperspace coil buried two decks below keened awake. His thumb mashed down—the glyph deformed—then disappeared. The ship spun up to gradient and then—with a shudder and a queasy slide—the
Wilful
was away as well, racing forward at transluminal speeds.

Vector confirmed,
he thought, smiling to himself.

De Molay looked up at him questioningly. “What have you done?” she mouthed.

“A detour,” he whispered. “When one door shuts, another opens.’”

ABOARD THE
CAN

Kikan-shi
Helsdon, formerly 2nd Engineer on the IMN DD-217
Calexico
, squinted against the glare of a pair of work lights to see if he could help the shipnet specialist crammed down in the cramped bottom of a holotank housing. “Do we need to run in more power?”

The specialist coughed, his face spotted with flecks of data crystal interface cable. The sound echoed tinnily in the confined space. “Modelers always need more power, Engineer. And memory. And room. And … how long before somebody comes down here wanting to see a life-size model of the whole damned
kuub
?”

The other Mirror technicians in the upper chamber laughed. They were busy laying down conduit and hooking up racks of portable computation engines into the shipnet. The whine of cutting saws echoed from the outer corridor, along with the
pang-pang-pang
of a nail gun tacking up temporary wall sections.

Helsdon tried to grin. “Maybe we should have looked around when we appropriated this threatwell tank. Who knows what else Logistics threw in when they loaded up?”

“I could use less chatter in here,” one of the other techs muttered, “and more computational help. The volume of this flux data is unbelievable. We’re saturating the storage interface!”

“One moment,” Helsdon replied, wiping his hands clean. “Got a place for me to work?” He crossed to a computer station jammed in next to the pair of double doors leading into the chamber and took a handheld v-pane unit from the Mirror technician.

The sandy-haired engineer had barely sat down on the floor—no chairs were available—and started to drill down into the configuration of the interfaces when three figures appeared, their imposing bulk blocking the entire doorway. They said nothing, but every technician in the room, including Helsdon, turned instinctively towards them.

The Imperial Jaguar Knights entered silently, their armor etched with dozens of black spots overlaid on a mosaic of pale blue and yellow lines. Their helmets, the visors currently opaque, rippled with stylized black and white feathers. Though entirely functional, the
Ocelototec
Mark Sixteen articulated combat suit contained a simple stealthing technology which allowed the wearer to adjust the surface patterning at will. At the moment, all three Jaguar Knights had their distinctive regimental colors and emblems dialed down—but Helsdon had seen them on military parade in Tenochtitlán itself, and knew they could, with the addition of brilliantly feathered nanomechanical cloaks, shine like the sun itself.

The officer—there were no obvious markings on his armor to indicate this, but Helsdon had a sense of the Knight from the way he carried himself—surveyed the room. The Jaguar’s gaze settled on the engineer, which made Malcolm swallow nervously.
Not good; someone has realized I’m the “survivor.”

“The Prince Imperial will speak with you,” the officer declared, his voice underlain by a vocoder-generated growl.