“A poor hunt, human,” Xoxarle said. “An ignominious end to the whole endeavour. You make me ashamed for you, but then, you are only human.”
“Oh shut up and start walking,” Yalson told the Idiran. She stabbed at buttons on her suit control unit and floated into the air, level with Xoxarle’s head. The Idiran snorted and turned. He started to hobble off down the foot tunnel. One by one, they followed him.
Horza noticed the Idiran starting to tire after a few kilometres. The giant’s steps became shorter; he moved the great keratinous plates of his shoulders more and more frequently, as though trying to relieve some ache within, and every so often his head shook, as if he was trying to clear it. Twice he turned and spat at the walls. Horza looked at the dripping patches of fluid: Idiran blood.
Eventually, Xoxarle stumbled, his steps veering to one side. Horza was walking behind him again, having had a spell on the pallet. He slowed down when he saw the Idiran start to sway, holding one hand up to let the others know, as well. Xoxarle made a low, moaning noise, half turned, then with a sideways stagger, the wires on his hobbled feet snapping tight and humming like strings on an instrument, he fell forward, crashing to the floor and lying still.
“Oh…” somebody said.
“Stay back,” Horza said, then went carefully towards the long, inert body of the Idiran. He looked down at the great head, motionless on the tunnel floor. Blood oozed from under it, forming a pool. Yalson joined Horza, her gun trained on the fallen creature.
“Is he dead?” she asked. Horza shrugged. He knelt down and touched the Idiran’s body with his bare hand, at a point near the neck where it was sometimes possible to sense the steady flow of blood inside, but there was nothing. He closed then opened one of the section leader’s eyes.
“I don’t think so.” He touched the dark blood gathering in its pool. “Look’s like he’s bleeding badly, inside.”
“What can we do?” Yalson said.
“Not a lot.” Horza rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“What about some anti-coagulant?” Aviger said from the far side of the pallet, where Balveda sat and watched the scene in front of her with dark, calm eyes.
“Ours doesn’t work on them,” Horza said.
“Skinspray,” Balveda said. They all looked at her. She nodded, looking at Horza. “If you have any medical alcohol and some skin-spray, make up an equal solution. If he’s got digestive tract injuries, that might help him. If it’s respiratory, he’s dead.” Balveda shrugged at Horza.
“Well, let’s do something, rather than stand around here all day,” Yalson said.
“It’s worth a try,” Horza said. “Better get him upright, if we want to pour the stuff down his throat.”
“That,” the drone said wearily from beneath the pallet, “no doubt means me.” It floated forward, placing the pallet on the floor near Xoxarle’s feet. Balveda stepped off as the drone transferred the load from its back to the tunnel floor. It floated to where Yalson and Horza stood by the prone Idiran.
“I’ll lift with the drone,” Horza told Yalson, putting his gun down; “you keep your gun on him.”
Wubslin, now kneeling on the tunnel floor and fiddling with the controls of the mass sensor, whistled quietly to himself. Balveda went round the back of the pallet to watch.
“There it is,” Wubslin smiled at her, nodding at the bright white dot on the green-lined screen. “Isn’t that a beauty?”
“Station seven, you reckon, Wubslin?” Balveda hunched her slim shoulders and shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets. She wrinkled her nose as she watched the screen. She could smell herself.
They were all smelling, all giving off animal scents, after their time down there without washing. Wubslin was nodding.
“Must be,” he said to the Culture agent. Horza and the drone struggled to get the slack-limbed Idiran into a sitting position. Aviger went forward to help, taking off his helmet as he went. “Must be,” Wubslin breathed, more to himself than to Balveda. His gun fell off his shoulder and he took it off, frowning at the jammed reel which was supposed to take up the slack on the weapon’s strap. He placed the weapon on the pallet and went back to tinkering with the mass sensor. Balveda edged closer, peering over the engineer’s shoulder. Wubslin looked round and up at her as Horza and the drone Unaha-Closp slowly heaved Xoxarle from the floor. Wubslin smiled awkwardly at the Culture agent, and moved the laser rifle he had placed on the pallet further away from Balveda. Balveda gave a small smile in return and took a step backwards. She took her hands out of her pockets and folded her arms, watching Wubslin work from a little further away.
“Heavy bastard,” Horza gasped, as he, Aviger and Unaha-Closp finally pulled and pushed Xoxarle’s back against the side of the tunnel. The massive head was angled limply forward over his chest. Liquid drooled from the side of his huge mouth. Horza and Aviger straightened. Aviger stretched his arms, grunting.
Xoxarle seemed dead; for a second, maybe two.
Then it was as though some immense force blasted him away from the wall. He threw himself forward and sideways, one arm whacking into Horza’s chest and sending the Changer cannoning into Yalson; at the same time, his partly buckled legs flicking straight, the Idiran pounced away from the group forward of the pallet, past Aviger — thrown against the tunnel wall — and Unaha-Closp — slapped into the floor of the tunnel with Xoxarle’s other hand — towards the pallet.
Xoxarle flew over the pallet, his raised arm and massive fist coming down. Wubslin’s hand hadn’t even started to move for his gun.
The Idiran brought his fist down with all his strength, shattering the mass sensor with a single crushing blow. His other hand flashed out to snatch the laser. Wubslin threw himself back instinctively, knocking into Balveda.
Xoxarle’s hand snapped shut round the laser rifle like a sprung trap round an animal’s leg. He rolled through the air and over the disintegrating wreckage of the sensor. The gun twirled in his hand, pointing back down the tunnel to where Horza, Yalson and Aviger were still trying to recover their balance and Unaha-Closp was just starting to move. Xoxarle steadied briefly and aimed straight at Horza.
Unaha-Closp slammed into the Idiran’s lower jaw like a small, badly streamlined missile, lifting the section leader bodily from the pallet, stretching his neck on his shoulders, jerking all three of his legs together, and throwing his arms out to each side. Xoxarle landed with a thud beside Wubslin and lay still.
Horza stooped and grabbed his gun. Yalson ducked and swivelled, bringing her gun to bear. Wubslin sat up. Balveda had staggered back after Wubslin had fallen against her; a hand at her mouth, she stood now, staring down at where Unaha-Closp hovered in the air over Xoxarle’s face. Aviger rubbed his head and looked resentfully at the wall.
Horza went over to the Idiran. Xoxarle’s eyes were closed. Wubslin tore his rifle from the Idiran’s slack fist.
“Not bad, drone,” Horza said, nodding.
The machine turned to him. “Unaha-Closp,” it said, exasperatedly.
“OK,” he sighed. “Well done, Unaha-Closp.” Horza went to look at Xoxarle’s wrists. The wires had been snapped. The wires on his legs were intact, but those on his arms had been broken like threads.
“I didn’t kill him, did I?” Unaha-Closp said. Horza, the barrel of his rifle hard against Xoxarle’s head, shook his head.
Xoxarle’s body started to tremble; his eyes flicked open. “No, I’m not dead, little friends,” the Idiran rumbled, and the cracking, scraping noise of his laughter echoed through the tunnels. He levered his torso slowly from the ground.