The Phoenix in Flight (63 page)

The Eya’a chattered again.

“Another patrol,” said Vi’ya. She pointed at another of the
corridors. “Close and coming fast. And there are some of the non-human minds,
but the Eya’a can’t locate them.”

She peered down the corridor Brandon had indicated. “We
might not get to the stairs before they see us. Is there another way?”

“Yes, that way,” Brandon said, indicating a third opening.
“That will take us back through the detention areas by a different route to
another station on the same transport line. But it’ll be a good deal farther.”

“We’ll only use it if we have to.” She looked about again,
then gave her twisting nod. Ivard had learned that when she did that, she’d
made a decision. Orders usually followed. He braced himself. “For now we will
make a stand here to buy some time. Montrose, take the old man down to the
transport. Get back and have Jaim warm things up. They must have connected us
with the ship, and they’ll find it soon.”

“Montrose, wait a moment,” said Brandon. “Here’s the code to
summon a transport to wait for us at the other station.” He tapped his boswell
and his lips moved briefly.

“Go now.” Vi’ya waved him down the corridor. “The Eya’a will
guard you.”

Montrose began running heavily with his burden, followed by
the Eya’a, who alone did not seem at all tired after all that running. Ivard
was sorry to see all three of them go. Vi’ya studied the fire door latch, then
wrenched at it, and the mechanism tore out of the wall. The door swung shut.
Ivard saw surprise on the Krysarch’s face at her strength.

Vi’ya unhooked several petards from her belt. One by one she
tapped them on her boswell and tossed them down the other open corridors. Ivard
watched one roll a short distance, then flatten into the floor, its camoplast
quickly rendering it invisible.

“Take cover. Quickly!” she hissed. Under her direction they
wrestled crates into position as makeshift bunkers with desperate haste, the
captain lending her greater strength as needed. Ivard got himself set where she
indicated, trying to control the weird shakiness in his knees and wrists.

(As soon as the patrol enters, I’ll trigger the petard
behind them. Be ready,)
said Vi’ya.

Ivard desperately had to pee. He sucked in a breath, held it
a moment, then let it out slowly, just as Markham had taught him. He looked
over at Greywing. Sweat gleamed on her scalp through her short hair. She looked
up and he tried to smile reassuringly.

Then he heard a weird snarling commotion coming from a side
corridor. It grew louder swiftly: high-pitched snarls, a low chuffing sound,
and a rapid clicking almost like the sound of the Eya’a’s twiggy toenails. Two
brown and black shapes burst out of the adit. Ivard’s jac bobbled in his hand,
his finger on the trigger, then he recognized them from chips: dogs!

One was running awkwardly, favoring a front leg. Both of
them had their heads turned slightly back, keeping one eye on a large
short-legged, yellow-orange creature pursuing them. It had large, leaf-like
scales instead of fur, and the low chuffing was coming from its gaping jaws,
which displayed far too many sharp greenish teeth. It was gaining on the dogs.

Then several things happened as the dogs ran past the crate
sheltering Brandon, so fast that Ivard gained only fragmented impressions. They
suddenly slowed—the unhurt dog gave a strange yodeling cry, turning toward the
Krysarch—the wounded dog somersaulted onto its back as its leg collapsed—the
yellow-orange creature with the teeth lunged—Brandon leaped up and triggered
the two-handed firejac.

The jac’s unfamiliar weight spoiled his aim. The blast hit
the floor in front of the creature. The flooring exploded in a hail of flaming
splinters and the creature went berserk, howling and snapping. Brandon jerked
the muzzle up. The stream of plasma faltered and died as it intersected the
creature’s body at the same time as shots from Lokri, Greywing, and the
captain, leaving only a roiling cloud of bloody steam.

Ivard ducked back as a wash of stinky, greasy heat blew
past. He fought down a cough as Brandon ducked down beside him, laboring under
the weight of a squirming, bleeding dog, one arm across its chest under its
neck, the other under its rump. As he put it down, the other dog pressed up
against his side, its ears flat, tail between its legs. It was growling, an
odd, almost querulous sound.

The dogs had smelled Brandon, Ivard thought, glee mixing
with terror. Just like in the vids. They smelled him, and they turned to him
for help.

Vi’ya’s voice came over the boz’l again.
(Hold. That’s alerted
them.)
Even through the boz’l-induced flattening Ivard could hear her
anger.

The only sound was a soft, whining ululation from the
wounded dog. Brandon fumbled his pack around, found the medkit, and jabbed the
animal with an ampule. Then he stroked the dog’s head and softly squeezed its
muzzle. It quieted somewhat. He gently squeezed the muzzle of the other dog,
and its growling ceased.

Ivard risked a peek as Vi’ya stood up and lobbed another
petard down a side corridor. This one began emitting bursts of sound resembling
footsteps and whispery voices that dwindled as though the sources were running
away. Vi’ya sent a hard look Ivard’s way and he hastily crouched down again.

Then Ivard heard the clink of harnesses and the faint
shuffle of feet moving fast. He hated not being able to see what was happening.
His hands ached, and he relaxed his grip on his jac. Next to him Brandon pulled
his own weapon free.

(On zero,)
came Vi’ya’s voice.
(3... 2... 1...)

The stuttering blast was immediately followed by screams of
pain and rage. Ivard ducked out from behind the crate. In the middle of the
floor a gray-clad soldier staggered toward him, her face vacant with shock, her
weapon dangling from one hand. Ivard brought his jac up but before he could
fire, a plasma bolt from Lokri’s position took the woman down , a jet of
crimson steam erupting from her shoulder.

Ivard gaped, all his sim training forgotten. Until now, all
his action had been while manning a console, and once he’d had to pilot for
Markham. He’d never been in a firefight.

A bolt of energy sizzled into the crate next to him. Heat
stung his face and he ducked back, his eyes tearing up. More bolts hit the
crate, but whatever was inside was bulky and dense enough to protect them.

The chamber now stank of charred meat and excrement, even worse than
the torture chamber. Ivard’s stomach heaved and he swallowed
frantically against the spurt of saliva at the back of his mouth.

Next to Brandon the dog stirred, its motions slower. Ivard
looked away from the raw-meat look of the tear down its shoulder.

“Are those your dogs?” he asked. “They smelled you, right?”

“They know our scent.” Brandon shook his head. “But they’re
my father’s. I don’t remember their names.” The dog quieted again and lay
panting. The other dog pushed its muzzle into Brandon’s armpit, then lay down
at a word from him, its head across one of his boots.

More jac bolts hit the crate in front of them. Smoke began
to pour out of it. The Krysarch laughed suddenly and whispered, “I just
remembered—the day I left here—I dreamed we were attacked in the Palace.”

With a whoosh the overhead firestops let go, drenching
Brandon and Ivard. A shrill alarm began to ululate. Steam billowed up from the
crate, further obscuring their view. From behind a nearby crate, Lokri threw
another petard, this time bouncing it off the ceiling into a Dol’jharian
position. The blast elicited another scream, and the return fire from other
positions became heavier; now the wall paneling was burning in places.

“‘Prayers that heaven in enormous vengeance grants,’”
Brandon murmured.

The remaining enemy soldiers had taken cover behind other
crates, or in side corridors. Ivard could hear guttural whispers. Another
shadow sprang to life and scuttled across the ceiling. The whispers stopped.

(We need to draw them off, give Montrose more time,)
said Vi’ya.
(But we can’t outrun them. We need to slow them down, make them
reluctant to follow. We’ll set some surprises.)
She issued a swift series
of commands for petard settings and where to place or throw them.
(Arkad,
take a petard and tap it on your boz’l. That will set it for smoke. When I give
the word, toss it into the middle of the room. The rest of you follow with
yours and then withdraw. Lokri and I will cover.)

Ivard tapped his petards to the banshee setting. The
Krysarch holstered his jac and followed Vi’ya’s orders. Ivard’s heart began
pounding even harder.

(Ready,)
said Brandon.

(On the mark,)
came Vi’ya’s voice.
( 3... 2...
1...Go!)

Brandon lobbed the little sphere over the crate. It hissed
like a hundred snakes when it hit the floor, and the room darkened as thick
smoke billowed out. Ivard heard the crack of jac bolts from Vi’ya and Lokri as
he threw his petards and then scrambled out from behind the crate. Shrill,
ear-piercing shrieks beat against each other in his ears, and even though he
was ready for the noise he was disoriented. Ivard glanced back, uncertain, and
saw Brandon look around, then up, then down, then his mouth flattened with
decision. He picked up the wounded dog and followed Ivard.

“Fol-geh!”
the Krysarch shouted, and the other dog
ran after him. Then Greywing pushed Ivard hard from behind.
(Get moving!)

Another series of stuttering blasts rocked the chamber as
Ivard followed Brandon, with Greywing at his side. Their shadows strobed down
the corridor ahead of them as jac fire flared behind. Lokri and Vi’ya caught up
with them quickly.

A jac-bolt sizzled down the hallway and vaporized a
holographic likeness of an archaically gowned woman with too many chins and no
lips. They reached a junction. Brandon veered into the left-hand corridor. The
weight of the dog unbalanced him and he bounced off the wall, turning his body
to take the impact on his shoulder. The dog in his arms yelped.

Another blast rocked the corridor they had just vacated.
Ivard heard a scream of pain, and sensed the pursuit slowing slightly.
This
isn’t so bad
, he exulted. Then he felt guilty. Greywing’s face was set in a
grimace of pain as she pounded along, one arm clutched tight against her. “
We
won’t ever fight just to be fighting
,” she’d said earlier. At first that
made him rasty, like she was scolding him. “
We’re going to get enough money
to go back to Natsu and then we’ll fight for freedom.”
He liked that idea
fine.

Lokri broke into his thoughts when he cast a sour look at
Brandon’s back. “You’ll never make it, trying to lug that animal, and you’re
slowing us down. I hope you don’t expect any of us to carry it.”

“Got a better idea.” The Krysarch pointed his chin down
another corridor. “I just... remembered where we are.”

They clattered down two narrow hallways, then into a room
full of shelves and boxes with a door on the other wall. Brandon paused and
hitched up the limp dog cradled in his arms so he could look over the dog’s
back and reach the console beside the storage room door. Ivard heard the door
bolt snick into place.

They dashed through the other door and down a new corridor.
The walls were a bilious green that looked like Ivard’s stomach felt. Rounding
a corner, they came on two black-clad guardsmen in front of a door, who spun
around and fired.

The first attack had been too fast to follow. This time
Ivard felt a terrible sense of being frozen. He saw the bolts of light from the
weapons. He saw Greywing jerking her arm up, too slow, too late. He felt
something harsh as acid shot from his wrist and flooded his body: the sense of
frozen time blasted away with the acid, forcing him to move faster than he’d
ever dreamed possible. His body convulsed violently, throwing him to one side,
his shot going wild.

A shadow flickered on the ceiling—the Dol’jharians looked up
at it—Ivard heard a thin, high cry before red pain-fire closed around him.

Montrose reached the closet without incident, although the
worm-shadows kept startling him.
If any place were to be haunted, it would
be the Mandala. The hopes and fears of trillions of people have been focused on
this place for almost a millennium.

His back and shoulders were aching with the strain of
carrying the old man. Getting him down the ladder took every bit of strength he
had.
Too many of those Briard sauces,
he thought with mild regret.

He shook off the mood and looked down at the old man wrapped
in the soiled robe.
Osri’s father. I hope he’s not as much of a blit as his
son. One of those on board is enough.
He muscled the old man into the
carrier, then returned to the wall console to key in the combination Brandon
had given him, cursing the archaic equipment that wouldn’t interface to his
boz’l, which forced him to listen to it and enter the alphanumerics manually.

The Eya’a followed him into the carrier and he set it into
motion. The trip back seemed much longer. Montrose considered the Eya’a, who
sat utterly motionless, like statues. He wondered what their perception of time
was like, compared to that of humans. What he’d seen of them suggested they
lacked the driving urge to be always doing something that made waiting such a
torment for human beings. Montrose snorted with amusement. Boredom was looking
really good right now.

o0o

Lokri cursed as the jac-fire hit the two redheads.
Greywing’s arms flew up and she dropped without a noise. Ivard leapt aside, his
body contorting, and the bolt lanced across his back.

Something flickered—the guards’ heads snapped to track it—Vi’ya
whipped up her weapon and fired, the sound not quite drowning a guttural snarl
of rage. Lokri fired at the same time. One of the Dol’jharians fell instantly;
the other fought for a moment to hold himself up, his finger convulsing on the
trigger of his jac to loose a stutter of plasma bolts into the floor as he
collapsed. Lokri triggered his jac again. Empty.