The Dying Light (39 page)

Haid nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Ameidio—” Roche began.

“Quiet!” Her guard pressed her back into the seat.

“There is no time left for discussion,” the general said. “I want the data transfer to commence as soon as possible. Any physical resources we have contributed to this station will be returned to the
Sebettu
immediately. However”— she swept the Humans in the room with a warning glance— “a full contingent will remain on board to ensure against further foolishness. Field Officer Shak’ni, you will see personally to the neutralization of the Olmahoi and Surin epsense adepts. They and the clone must be ready to move in one hour. And this time I want no loose ends.”

Shak’ni bowed and stalked out of the room, casting a baleful glance at Roche as he went.

The general allowed herself a chuckle as she spoke to her interpreter.

“The two Warriors will have a moment to reflect upon the import of the task ahead while they wait for the weapons to arrive,” he translated. “The rest of you may clean
this
up.” He pointed at Disisto’s body. “If you wish,” he added, then turned to follow the general as she strode heavily from the room. B’shan silently followed.

Mavalhin was instantly on his feet. “Congratulations, Rufo,” he spat. “You’ve managed to get us all killed!”

The old scientist didn’t respond. All he could do was stand and stare blankly at the body of his security chief.

“The Kesh drive a hard bargain,” Haid said. “The moment you think you’ve got a fair deal, it’s time to check the fine print.”

Roche put her hand on his arm; his biomesh was sharp and cold to the touch. “Why are you doing this, Ameidio?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to, and I figure this might be my last chance.”

“Be serious—”

“No, I am. You’ve seen the way the Kesh are. They’re impossible to deal with. Anybody who spends any time with them ends up tiptoeing around to avoid causing a fuss. It wears thin after a while. Even the G’rodo were like that; better than most, in a lot of ways, but in the end just as annoying. It’s nice to get your own back, just once.”

She sighed. “Well, what about the weapons? Do you get a choice?”

He shook his head. “When you invoke an ancient rite, you get what you’re given.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “This is insane.”

“Perhaps, but we don’t really have many options open to us, do we? Unless you have a plan you haven’t let me in on yet?” When she didn’t answer, he smiled and said: “Then I guess we go with my idea.”

Roche muttered under her breath as she turned away from Haid; she faced Rufo and said: “Rufo, you’re still the chief around here, for what it’s worth. How about getting someone in to take Disisto away? I think he deserves better than this, don’t you?”

Rufo nodded numbly and moved over to the console. He spoke briefly to someone outside and, moments later, the Kesh guard let a medical stretcher through. Disisto’s body was bagged up and taken away. Nothing was said by anyone throughout the process; everyone just stood and watched in silence.

“How long do we have?” said Roche after the doors had closed again.

Haid shrugged. “I don’t know. The longer the better. Even artificial limbs need time to limber up.”

Roche stepped over to Rufo. “Is there anything else I should know?” she asked. “Cane is older than I originally thought; the command language has been coming from the High Humans... Anything at all?”

He looked up at her with eyes empty of anything but despair. “What difference does it make now?”

“Spare me your self-pity,” she snapped. “Now
talk
to me! Do you have any contact names for the High Humans? Or possible suspects for the people who made Cane? There must be
something
else!”

Rufo stared vacantly into space. Then he said: “Introns.”

“What?”

“Check Cane’s introns.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“We took a tissue sample before we put Cane into hibernation,” he said. “It looks like yours or mine on the surface; it has the same ratio of introns to exons. You see, introns are part of everyone’s genetic code; the junk parts, the filler. The exons do all the work. We assumed the differences lay in the exons, so we concentrated on those areas. But there was something about the introns—something unusual. We haven’t had the time to look at them properly. You could start there.” He stopped, the beginnings of a hopeful gleam in his eye abruptly extinguished. “But you won’t have time either, will you? You can’t even get a message outside to let someone else know.”

Mavalhin made a noise of disgust from behind him. Roche ignored it.

“Is that all?” she said.

He shook his head. “You know as much as I do, now. Frightening how little it is, don’t you think?”

Roche could only agree.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the Kesh returned. Haid had been warming up for just ten minutes when B’shan walked in.

“Why are
you
doing this?” Roche asked, stepping in front of him. “I thought you were better than the others.”

“At least this way you’ll have a chance,” he said evenly.

Up close Roche found the Kesh lieutenant’s skin almost beautiful: his blue and purple markings looked like tribal tattoos applied by a skilled ink-worker. For all his leanings toward mundane culture, it wasn’t difficult to believe that he could descend to such barbarism.

She stepped out of the way. “You’re both fools,” she said.

B’shan faced Haid across the room, and bowed. They exchanged a handful of words in the Kesh language, then bowed again.

“He has consented to allow me use of my implants,” Haid said to Roche.

“Otherwise I fear the battle would be somewhat one-sided,” B’shan explained.

Roche shuddered at the idea of Haid stripped back to nothing but flesh. He would have been utterly helpless, a cripple.

“The general will permit those of you who wish to observe to do so,” B’shan went on, addressing everyone. “You are, after all, witnesses to her oath, and we must ensure she carries it out. Combat will commence in five minutes.”

“What about the weapons?” Roche directed the question at Haid, but it was B’shan who answered:

“There will be no armor, powered or passive. There will be nothing but the druh.”

“That’s the weapon we’ll be given,” explained Haid. “Not much more use than a pocketknife, really.”

“Even a pocketknife can kill,” said B’shan.

“I know. I’ve tried it.”

B’shan straightened. At full stretch, he had about thirty centimeters on Haid, and he looked considerably stronger. While Roche didn’t doubt her friend’s agility under the best circumstances, fighting in half-g with unfamiliar implants was hardly optimal.

Instead of saying anything more, B’shan simply bowed again and left the room. Haid followed, casting a reassuring look at Roche as he passed. When he had gone, the guards indicated that the others should also leave.

As Roche walked out the room, Mavalhin stepped in beside her.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Morgan,” he hissed.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re up to something, right? This is all a ruse of some kind.”

She turned on him sharply. “Don’t look to me to get you out of your own stupid situations, Myer. And don’t bother trying to say it was me that got you into this mess, either. You jumped at the chance to join me when it looked like I was going somewhere—just like you did back at College.” For a moment she felt vertigo, as though reliving her dream of falling. “Take control of your own life, Myer, and leave me to sort out mine.”

He backed away, face flushed with anger and embarrassment. She didn’t care. He meant nothing to her. All she wanted to do was talk to the Box. But she couldn’t. The slightest attempt to do so would result in its destruction, as well as Maii’s execution. If the Kesh detected any transmissions, it would be expelled into space and fired upon from a dozen different directions. No matter what sort of firepower it was rated to stand, that was going to hurt....

They didn’t have to walk far. The general had ordered the garden windows to be smashed; there seemed no reason to maintain the delicate ecosystem any longer. Rufo’s dismay only increased when he saw the damage. The corridor surrounding the garden now more resembled a gallery, with both Kesh and mundanes curious to see what would happen. Word had obviously spread.

When the two combatants stepped into the garden, a small cheer went up. Roche wasn’t sure for whom the cheer was intended; maybe it was just for the spectacle itself. Haid and B’shan stood on one of several mesh walkways crisscrossing the garden. Where the bottom was, Roche couldn’t see; far enough below for a fall likely to be lethal, she imagined.

The general clapped her hands once. Haid and B’shan held curved bronze-colored swords in their left hands, each barely as long as the average Pristine forearm. They were intricately carved with elongated Kesh characters that made no sense to Roche. Haid raised his to kiss the narrow guard, and bowed to the general.

“
Sh’ten dri ha
,” he called. “By the blade!”

“To the death,” B’shan responded, also bowing.

“Begin!” rasped the general, and the two men faced each other.

They stood two meters apart, and were wary at first. Haid tested both his reach and B’shan’s defenses by darting forward twice to slash at the Kesh’s exposed side, but B’shan parried with ease. The third time Haid tried it, B’shan counterattacked with a quick stab, only to catch a boot to the side for his troubles. The kick didn’t even wind him, but it did take him by surprise. Roche could see the Kesh lieutenant hesitate, reassessing his opponent.

Then the combat truly began. Later she would recall a hail of thrusts, stabs, and sweeping slashes from B’shan as he sought to overwhelm Haid’s defenses. The ex-mercenary was hard-pressed to keep up, parrying with his one good arm and relying on a more clumsy artificial limb to keep his balance. Twice B’shan’s druh caught Haid’s biomesh, parting several strands and slicing shallowly into flesh. It was difficult to tell through the blood,

but Haid’s implants didn’t seem to be affected. He certainly didn’t display any sign of weakness. Apart from the odd moment when his guard was down, he fought as well as ever.

It was clear from the outset, though, that he was no match for the Kesh officer. B’shan went for his kidneys, and Haid only just managed to block the blow. Barely had he recovered his balance when the druh swept in to slash his throat. He staggered backwards, ducking just out of reach. A halfhearted stab in the general direction of B’shan’s sword arm failed to connect, and he was struggling for his life again.

Roche felt that her friend’s only hope lay in superior agility. B’shan had power to spare, able to hammer blows with an emphasis Haid couldn’t possibly match, but the Kesh’s size left him clumsy. A couple of times Haid gained ground by encouraging him to overextend, permitting a nimble stab from below, or a quick shove to put him off balance. At times like this, with B’shan forced onto his back foot, Haid made ground.

But that ground was soon lost. Roche knew that unless fortune smiled upon him, Haid would ultimately fall.

Her knuckles gripped the windowsill as Haid endured another blistering barrage from the Kesh. Above him, the general watched impassively, her expression almost one of boredom. For the most part the fight was conducted in silence, apart from the ringing of metal on metal, the various sounds of exertion, and the occasional call of encouragement from the spectators. Both men were breathing heavily, although the Kesh’s smooth skin was almost entirely sweat-free.

B’shan had almost managed to back Haid to the end of the walkway when Haid miscalculated. Knowing that he was about to be cornered, the ex-mercenary needed to find space. There were only two options: another walkway, or pushing through B’shan and out the other side. For once, Haid took the offensive, summoning every last iota of energy to put B’shan off his stroke. The moment he had an opening, he leapt onto the guardrail and sprang for the next walkway down.

It almost worked. The move took B’shan by surprise, just long enough for Haid to avoid the slash that followed him. He managed the leap well enough, his artificial legs being more than up to the task in half-gravity. It was the landing he fumbled, stumbling heavily and throwing out his good arm to break his fall.

Roche heard the crack before she saw what had happened. The walkway he’d left partially obscured his new position, and a few seconds passed before she found a better viewpoint. By the time she reached it, he was on his feet, holding his broken arm to his stomach. The sword was in the hand of his new arm. He flexed it, eyes seeking another way out as B’shan followed him across the gap.

Eyes seeking
her,
Roche realized. He was waiting for her to save him.

But there was nothing she could do.

As B’shan straightened warily, druh at the ready in case Haid attacked while he recovered from the leap, a whistle echoed across the leafy space. It came from the general and her entourage, a Kesh version of the warning sirens associated with mundanes. The general held a whispered conversation with her interpreter, then looked pointedly across the garden to Roche.

“Morgan Roche!” the general’s voice boomed. “Would you care to explain why we are once again under attack?”

Everything stopped, and all eyes turned to look at her as the general continued:

“I have just received word that a number of outrigger all-suits have been seen approaching this location in attack formation. I suppose you know nothing about this?”

“I don’t, I swear!” And it was the truth. Roche genuinely had no idea what was going on. Another attack by the outriggers? What was Auditor Byrne up to?

“Gah!” The general turned away, disgusted, back to Haid and B’shan. The two had backed away from each other during the interruption, although B’shan still stood with his weapon raised, as though unsure whether to continue. For a moment Roche was certain he would press home his advantage while the chance remained. But he didn’t.

Haid grinned up at Roche, and nodded his thanks.