She didn't know much about rocktopi communication, but she knew that of her own species. Without some central cultural reference, such as television or radio, human languages fractured, split and mutated into countless regional dialects. Language dilution could happen so quickly that over only a century someone who spoke the original language couldn't understand the new form.
Veronica could only imagine how much a language could change over the course of eleven thousand years. Even if the rocktopi only changed a single word every century, by now 110 words would have changed, perhaps even making the original instructions completely unworkable. After all, blowing up the entire mountain wasn't exactly something they could practice to stay sharp.
The logical answer to this likely problem? Put the instructions in picture form. Simple pictures could provide the rocktopi with a method for self-destruction should their enemy finally arrive. That concept explained the Picture Cavern. The carvings there were instructional, filled with the one message the rocktopi understood all too well — if it comes from the surface, kill it.
Now it was their turn to die.
She looked up at the walls, scanning the instructions. At the top were images of the spiky, wasp-like enemy ships, as well as pictures of some new form she'd never seen before. She didn't recognize it, but it appeared to be a bipedal creature covered with spines. It was long and slender, not even remotely humanoid, with one very long arm that reached forward, ending with what could only be a gun of some sort. She couldn't make out anything resembling a head.
She knew she was looking at the rocktopi's ancient enemy.
Below those pictures were images of the enemy moving into the tunnels. Below that — step-by-step picture instructions for detonating the doomsday device.
The etching's message made perfect sense — if the enemy enters the tunnels, blow up everything. She suddenly admired the rocktopi culture; warriors to the last, so intent on avoiding capture they would bring about their own extinction, practice the ultimate form of euthanasia. But it was the Old Rocktopi she admired, not the current bastardized genetic rejects that mindlessly slaughtered everything in sight.
It was funny to think that this race that once traveled amongst the stars and had the power to move mountains now communicated at a level of primitive humans. She wondered if the same fate lay in store for her own race. Perhaps in the end, the very end, mankind would be left with nothing more than crude pictures.
Taking a deep breath, she examined the instructions.
Chapter Forty-seven
Connell reached behind O'Doyle's neck and pried away his Marco/Polo sounder. He did the same with Lybrand. It was like picking a small scab.
O'Doyle reached up to remove Connell's, but Connell pushed the gnarled hand away. “No,” he said in a hushed voice. There was no way Kayla could hear his voice over the river's roar, yet he still spoke quietly.
"I'm going to lead her away,” Connell said. “You get Lybrand to the surface."
"You said she's dangerous. I should take her out, then we can all escape."
Connell shook his head. “Look at yourself, O'Doyle. You won't stand a chance. Trust me on this. I'll talk to her and see what she's up to. At the very least, Kayla will come after me — you can get Lybrand out."
O'Doyle stared at Connell, and Connell stared back. Both men knew the score. O'Doyle wanted to protect Connell, but he wanted to save Lybrand even more. O'Doyle handed Connell his knife. Connell took it, his eyes sending O'Doyle a message of respect, of friendship. In the space of a day they'd become comrades, brothers in arms, the violence and struggle for life forming an unbreakable bond.
O'Doyle's eyes spoke of gratitude, of a debt that could never be repaid.
Connell nodded and stood. “Stay back in the shadows. Without the Marco/Polo dots, she won't see you. Don't try and take her, O'Doyle, or you and Lybrand will both be dead in seconds. Trust me. Once she's moved past, you go for the Linus Highway and get out."
Without another word, Connell tucked the knife into the back of his belt, then walked around the corner of the ship canyon.
On the Marco/Polo unit's controls, the names of Bertha Lybrand, Patrick O'Doyle, and Connell Kirkland changed from the flashing yellow of a splintered signal to the steady green of a clear contact. Kayla looked up and saw Connell standing at the edge of the ship canyon, a mere fifty yards away. She immediately turned off the Marco/Polo unit and stuffed it in her belt, leaving both hands free. The Galil hung in front of her.
"Connell!” She walked briskly forward. “Are you all right?"
"Stop right there, Kayla."
Kayla stopped
"What's the matter?” she asked innocently.
"What are you doing here?"
She saw the tension in his body, his readiness to spring away at a moment's notice. His hand rested on the ship's hull, ready to pull him behind the edge, out of her line of sight.
"I'm here to rescue you."
"How did you know I needed rescuing? I never told you about the camp."
She didn't answer. His body moved slightly, his chest leaning back just a hair. He was getting ready to bolt. She snapped-grabbed for her Galil ARM, bringing it up and firing a spray of bullets, but Connell was too quick, ducking behind the ship hull just as the bullets splattered loudly against rocks and clanged off platinum.
She sprinted after him and entered the ship canyon's steamy shadows.
O'Doyle only saw her in a flash as she raced by the ship's corner, tearing after Connell with the Marco/Polo in one hand and a Galil ARM in the other. Connell had a 20-second head start, but how long would that last him before she caught up?
O'Doyle waited ten seconds, then rose and pulled Lybrand to her feet. He wished Connell well, but he couldn't help the man anymore. He threw Lybrand over his shoulder and limped out of the bubble room, moving toward the Linus Highway. He had an impossible sprint ahead of him, and even if he escaped the rocktopi, the silverbugs, and Kayla Meyers, Veronica could bring the world crashing down around him at any moment.
Jaw clenched with sheer determination, his good leg pumped under him, carrying them both onto the Linus Highway. It was steeper than he expected, but he never slowed an ounce. O'Doyle attacked the tunnel's rise, pushing his way up, pushing for the surface.
He'd get her out alive. He'd find a way.
It was easy.
Veronica ran through the sequence in her mind, fingers gracing the buttons and levers instead of pressing and turning. She mentally practiced. The only question was when? How much time should she give Connell, O'Doyle, and Lybrand? Veronica ran her fingers over the controls, which now looked very simple. So simple even a child could perform the sequence. Anyone — or anything — with eyes and a modicum of intelligence could do it.
The air was full of the river's roar and the clicks of wandering silverbugs drunk on static. Veronica didn't hear a trio of shiny new silverbugs crawl menacingly from the water's edge and onto the wall.
Kayla barely saw Connell through the mist. She was gaining on him — time to try for a shot. She raised the Galil ARM and fired a volley at his legs. As she brought the gun down, her right foot slid in the deep mud. Kayla lurched forward, landed on her left knee, then skidded on her face.
She was on her feet quickly, still running after him. The slip had lost her another five seconds, and the knee hurt like a bitch — she couldn't go top speed. But he was also limping, she'd still catch him.
Her face-first slide had covered her with wet, clinging platinum dust. Kayla chased after her prey, unaware that she now looked metallic, like the killing machine that she truly was.