Her good right hand covered the mauled left, unable to stop the blood that spurted forth form the stumps, blood that spilled onto the damp sand in bright red droplets. The sleeves of her tattered KoolSuit dangled from her forearms like wet noodles coated in spaghetti sauce. Sheets of blood rolled down the side of her face, matting her black hair to her skin. She'd rolled on her side while writhing in pain — sand stuck to her blood-drenched skin.
"Hold on, I'm here."
Lybrand's eyes alternately pinched tightly shut and stared with wide-eyed disbelief at the fingers laying lifeless on the sand.
O'Doyle grabbed the knife from her belt and slashed at one of the backpacks, cutting off two long strips of nylon fabric. He pulled her good hand free and pinned it to the ground under his knee. She cried in pain as he forcefully grabbed her ravaged limb. He twisted so he could pinch her forearm between his right arm and body, leaving only the hand exposed. “Hold still, soldier. This is going to hurt."
"Do it!” Lybrand said through teeth clenched. O'Doyle wrapped a strip of fabric around the stump of her trigger finger, tied a knot and then pulled it tight with a strong, sharp snap. Lybrand threw her head back let loose a short scream of pain, instinctively trying to pull away from O'Doyle.
"Shut up!” O'Doyle said. “Stay quiet! There may be more silverbugs out there, so don't make a noise no matter how much it hurts."
Lybrand bit her lip and looked at him through her right eye, her left shut against the flow of blood cascading down her face. He expertly wrapped the second strip and snapped it tight. Lybrand gave a long grunt of pain, but kept her mouth shut.
O'Doyle ravaged the pack, trying to find something suitable as a head bandage. He slashed a bedroll, pulled out the cotton padding and pressed it to her head, instructing her to hold it in place.
Lybrand reached up and awkwardly pressed the cotton to her temple. O'Doyle cut another long swath of pack material and tied it tightly around her head. He then turned his attention to her arms. A chill filled his soul. The sleeves of the KoolSuit were shredded. The clear, viscous fluid coolant dripped along with her blood into the sand. Deep lacerations covered her arms.
He shredded two more strips of pack material; if he didn't stop the fluid loss, her body would suffer temperatures teetering on the boiling point in a matter of seconds. He could worry about blood poisoning later; the heat, combined with her wounds, would kill her much faster. As quickly and carefully as he could, he laid the KoolSuit shreds back in place, then tightly wrapped the long strips around her arms and tied them off. Within twenty seconds, both forearms were bandaged from elbow to hand.
"I'm… glad you're a… soldier,” Lybrand grimaced through clenched teeth.
"Why's that?” O'Doyle asked softly, wiping the blood-matted hair from her face.
"Because you'd make a really shitty doctor."
O'Doyle looked into the ship-canyon, but saw no sign of Angus or Randy. He looked back the way Connell had gone, but saw no sign of him either. He needed Angus to patch up the KoolSuit. O'Doyle knew his battlefield repair would slow the coolant fluid loss, but wouldn't stop it. Without Angus, Lybrand would be dead inside an hour. He checked his watch, then set his eyes to scan the cavern, looking for more silvery movement. Twenty minutes was up. Everyone should be back already. But he saw no one.
No one at all.
Angus stared at the statue-like silverbug still clinging to the wall. It hadn't moved five agonizing minutes. If he hadn't known it wasn't there when he entered the room, Angus would have thought the machine an immobile wall fixture, a piece of sculpture, perhaps.
The machines were adapting to the situation. He'd seen the rocktopi's intelligence, leaving only one logical answer; the silverbugs were more than a collective program, they were a collective intelligence. A thinking, plotting, adapting intelligence hell-bent on killing everyone in sight.
"We've got to do something, Angus,” Randy said. “We can't just stand here. If the silverbugs can ignore the scrambling they might be leading rocktopi against the others. We've got to jump it."
"Are you nuts? Look at that knife!"
"We can't stay here, dammit!” There was only one exit to the room; the silverbug sat just outside it like a prison guard.
"Think of something, Angus,” Randy said. “Get us out of here."
Angus took a deep breath. “Okay, okay. You're in front of the door, so you move toward it. If it moves away, great, we boogie on out of here. If it goes for you, I'll grab it."
Randy nodded slowly. Angus heard his friend swallow, and heard his breathing speed up. Angus's own breath came in short gasps. He felt his body surge with adrenaline, anxiety and fear.
"You ready?” Randy asked tentatively.
"Do it,” Angus said.
Randy took one small step forward.
With the strong spring of new legs, the silverbug launched itself off the wall and into the room. Randy yelled in surprise. He brought his hands up quickly and caught two of the silverbug's outstretched arms.
"Angus, get him!” Randy screamed, his face filled with terror at the wriggling, heavy thing trying to slash at his face.
Angus remained motionless, only his head turning so his eyes could follow the action. His feet felt cemented to the floor, his body felt cold and immobile, as if he were part of the round walls. He couldn't move. He just couldn't.
The silverbug's two free arms slashed at Randy like the back legs of a fighting alley cat. Sharp claws sliced through Randy's KoolSuit, through his skin, splattering blood on the dusty floor. In the light of Angus's headlamp the blood looked black.
Randy screamed with pain and threw the silverbug at the wall. Quick as a cat it reversed its legs, all four claws landing firmly on the curved platinum surface. It sprang off the wall like a bouncing rubber ball, coming straight back at Randy.
"Angus!” was all Randy had time to say before the silverbug slammed into him again.
Angus watched the heavy robot crash into Randy's flailing, bloody arms, staggering the small man back. The silverbug landed on the floor and instantly bounced toward Randy's head, this time knocking him to the ground. Like a metallic wolf spider the silverbug quickly crawled up Randy's body. He brought an arm up to push the machine away.
"Jesus Christ get it off!"
Randy squirmed under the silverbug's spindly weight, the attack fixed in Angus's headlamp glare like a big-tent spectacle.
A hand, severed at the wrist and suddenly free of its connection to the arm, flew across the room, flinging streaks of black blood as it spun through the air. It landed with a small bounce at Angus's feet. Angus's breaths came in short, rapid-fire gulps of air. He looked down at the hand, Randy's fight for life suddenly left in darkness. The fingers on the hand flexed lightly, curling inward like the legs of a dying beetle.
Angus's feet suddenly came free of their moorings. He sprinted down the hall, toward the others, leaving Randy's last gurgling, horrified death-screams echoing through the curved halls behind him.
Chapter Forty-one
The Marco/Polo unit beeped only once. She quickly pulled it from her belt, but before she could even look at the screen the signal was gone. Kayla played with the settings… nothing. She put the unit back into her belt.
It didn't matter.
One beep was enough. She was right; they were down there. Down there in the Dense Mass. The map told her she was very close, possibly only a few minutes away. A small, crooked smile crossed her lips.
The third alcove didn't do them much good. It appeared to be a history of leadership — thousands of brightly colored individual rocktopi carvings covered the walls. Each was crafted with the megarealistic care that defined the race's art, and each looked as if it could jump off the wall at any moment.