Being unable to contact distant loved ones was bad enough for troops unused to war and brought up from childhood with the ability to reach anybody they wanted through the corpus, but at least in most of the rest of the Army they could talk so to each other. For the duration of this mission they were forbidden even that, lest they betray their positions, and only encapsulated within their closed transports could they use their implants.
Sessine glanced back at the bulbous snout of the provisions caisson immediately aft — it was all there was to be seen behind, just as all he could see in front was the rear of a weapon-laden chimeric — then ducked back inside the scree-car, closing the hatch cover after him.
The scree-car's interior was warm and smelled of oil and plastic; in the two days since they had quit the newly built hydrovator at the breach lip opposite the bastion-tower he had come to regard its humming, machine-scented interior almost with affection. Perhaps there was something womb-like about its hermetic, humming redness.
Sessine settled into the commander's seat and took his gloves off. 'Hatch down,' he said.
'Hatch down, sir,' the car's captain called out, calling back over her shoulder. The driver at her side twisted the scree-car's wheel, his eyes fixed on the clear image of the ground ahead produced by the all-band display.
'Communication?' Sessine asked the comms operator. The young lieutenant nodded, trembling. He looked frightened, his skin grey. Sessine wondered what the news was, and felt his guts start to knot.
'We got it too, sir,' the captain called, still watching the screen. 'Gistics update code: routine.'
'Routine?' Sessine asked, staring at the lieutenant's stricken-looking expression. What was happening?
'I — I heard some —' the comms operator began, then swallowed. 'I heard something more, sir, over the machine's hard channel, from Intelligence,' he stammered. He licked his lips and rested one shaking hand on the comms console.
The captain twisted round in her seat, frowning. 'What?'
The lieutenant glanced at her, then told Sessine, 'They have a spyer on the north rim-wall, sir; he reports… a…' the young man hesitated, then blurted, 'an air attack.'
'What?' yelled the captain, twisting in her seat and punching at the car's sensor controls, then sitting back, one hand to her ear, eyes closed.
'A… an air attack, sir,' the lieutenant repeated, tears in his eyes, glancing up at the hatch.
The captain muttered something. The driver started to whistle. Sessine could think of nothing to say. He jumped up onto the observation platform and threw the hatch open again, remembering to shout, 'Hatch open!' as he rose into the steams and smokes above. He lifted the field glasses.
As he put them to his eyes, he heard two shots from beneath him, inside the car, followed quickly by two more. The car lurched and swung right.
Sessine dropped through the hatch, and as he did so realised that he might have made a terrible mistake.
His hand went to his own gun; he registered the sick-sweet smell of burnt flesh, and found himself looking into the tear-streaked face of the comms operator, pointing his gun straight at him.
The two bodies in the front of the scree-car jiggled slackly as the car thumped over some obstruction. The lieutenant braced himself against the car's ceiling with his free hand and sniffed hard. Sessine held his hand out to him, leaving his other hand on the butt of his gun. 'Now —'
'I'm sorry, sir!'
Then the world lit up, and a terrible blow struck Sessine's lower face. He fell, knowing he was dying, falling surrounded by smoke to hit the floor, beyond pain with a noise past sound in his ears, no breath left in him and no way of breathing, and lay there for some terrible suspended moment before he sensed the young lieutenant over him and felt the gun at the back of his head and had time to think, Why?, and he died.
4
Woak up. Got dresd. Had brekfast. Spoke wif Ergates thi ant who sed itz juss been wurk wurk wurk 4 u lately master Bascule, Y dont u ½ a holiday? & I agreed & that woz how we decided we otter go 2 c Mr Zoliparia in thi I-ball ov thi gargoyle Rosbrith.
I fot Id bettir clear it wif thi relevint oforities furst & hens avoyd any truble (like happind thi lastime) so I went 2 c mentor Scalopin.
Certinly yung Bascule, he sez, i do beleave this is a day ov relativly lite dooties 4 u u may take it off. ½ u made yoor mattins calls?
O yes, I sed, which woznt stricktly tru, in fact which woz pretti strikly untru, trufe btold, but I cude always do them while we woz travelin.
Wots in that thare box yoor holdin? he asks.
Itz a ant, I sez, waven thi box @ his face.
O this is yoor litil frend, is it? i herd u had a pet. May i see him?
Iss not a pet, iss a frend; u woz rite thi furst time, & iss not a im iss a she. Luke.
O yes very pretti, he sez, which is a pretti strainge thing 2 say about a ant if u ask me but thare u go.
Duz it — duz she ½ a naim? he asks.
Yes, I sez, sheez calld Ergates.
Ergateez, he sez, thatz a nyce name whot maid u call her that?
Nuffink, I sez; itz her reel name.
A I see, he sez, & givs me 1 ov thoze lukes.
& she can tok 2, I tel him, tho I doan xpect yule b able 2 here hir.
(Shh, Bascule! goze Ergates, & I go a bit red.)
Duz she, duz she now? mentor Scalopin sez wif wunna them tolerint smylez. Very wel then he sez, pattin me on thi hed (which I doan much like, frangly, but sum times u jus ½ 2 pool up wif these things. N-way whare wer we? O yes he woz pattin me on thi hed & sayin), off yugo (he sez) but b bak by supper.
Ritey-ho, I sez, all breezy like, nevir thinkin.
Swing doun past thi kitchins 2 see mistriz Blyke 2 flash my big solefool Is & giv hir thi soppi smile all shy & bashfool & skrownj sum provishins. She pats me on thi noddil 2 — what is it wif peeple?
Leev thi monstery about ½ 9 & lift 2 thi top; thi sun iz shinin in fru thi big winders acros thi grate hol strait in2 ma Iz. Dam shure it dozen luke like itz gettin dimmer 2 me but evrybody sez it is so I spose it muss b.
Grab a ride on a waggin heddin 4 thi souf-west hydrovater along thi clif roade, hangin on 2 thi bak ov thi truk abuv thi x-ost; bit steemy when thi truk stops @ junkshins, but beets havvin 2 ride in thi cab & tok 2 thi dryver & probly get pattid on thi bonce aggen like as knot.
I like thi cliff rode cos u can luke ovir thi edge & c rite doun 2 thi flore ov thi hol & evin c thi big rownd bobbly bits what wood b thi handils ov thi drawerz ov thi bureau if this woz a propir size place instead ov being BIG like it is. Mr Zoliparia sez ov coarse ther wernt nevir no jiants & I bileev him but sumtymes u can luke owt ovir thi hall wif its mountins like cuboardz & mountins like seets & sofas set agenst thi wall & thi tabils & poofs & so on skaterd about thi playce & u fink, Whenz them big bags cummin bak then? (Bags is my own koinin & am qwite proud ov it — meenz Boys & GirlS. Ergates sez its called a nacronim. N-way whare woz we? O yes hangin on 2 thi bak ov thi truk rolin along thi clif rode.)
Ergates thi ant iz in hir box in thi left brest pokit ov my jakt-wif-lotza-pokits, all saifly butinned down. U alrite Ergates? I whispir as we bownse along thi rode.
Am fine, she tellz me. Whare r we rite now?