To the surface, you mean? Isoroku's voice faded with exhaustion, and then strengthened again. We had a tightbeam link to the Legation about an hour ago…but the Residency came under attack and the comm dropped out. I think Helsdon is dead.
"What about traffic control?"
Up here? Chu-sa , there's no one to talk to! Only derelicts…
Hadeishi convulsed with a wheezing hack. The table beeped angrily at him and sleepyhead began to leak into his blood. The Chu-sa felt a familiar numbness in his extremities and began breathing through his nose, slowing his heart. Sometimes the medical bay bedsensors had to be treated delicately if a man was to get his work done.
"Thai-i, the ship will be a danger to navigation – including our own shuttles – as long as the point defense systems have node power. So as you restore grid by grid, make sure none of the gatling or railgun mounts come back on-line. Route your damage control teams to disable them as soon as possible."
Hai, kyo!
"What is this?"
The gui-ni in charge of the bay suddenly appeared over Hadeishi, a reproving scowl on his dark brown face. "Awake despite the drugs, I see." The Mixtec leaned close, one hand on the bed-rail, and produced a sensor wand, watching the readout from the heavy-duty medband. "Chu-sa Hadeishi, your rib-cage is badly bruised, your lungs are half shriveled from lack of oxygen and low suit pressure, your leg muscles are badly strained and you've suffered a heavy dose of radiation poisoning."
He passed the wand over the Chu-sa's forehead. "Why don't you let yourself heal? In sixteen or seventeen hours, the worst of the damage will be repaired…"
Hadeishi moved his head aside. "There are crewmen who need your assistance, isha. My condition is sufficient for duty. I am needed on the bridge before more of my men are injured or killed."
The gui-ni regarded him levelly for a moment. "Both medical bays are full. I've men in trauma bags hanging in the hallway like cuts of meat and there are whole compartments from bulkhead sixteen back the damage control teams haven't managed to cut into yet. I need this medical bed, but you're the captain and that means you get priority treatment -"
"I disagree." Hadeishi pointed his chin at the restraints across his chest. "Release me and you'll have the bed back."
"Your condition -"
"Isha, I'm giving you an order," Hadeishi said, forcing his tongue to move. "I'll sit very still once I'm on the bridge."
The Mixtec grunted noncommittally. His face was dotted with tiny green flecks of drying woundgel. "Fleet executive authority does not extend to the medical branch, save in an advisory role, Chu-sa. You can't order me to do anything."
Hadeishi suppressed a ghoulish laugh. "Nor can you restrict my authority, save by rendering me unconscious. This argument is pointless – here, I do nothing but take up space and your time. On the bridge, I can improve matters for all of us."
"Perhaps." The Mixtec sighed and made a hand motion indicating the acceptance of fate.
The gui-ni called for one of his corpsmen and keyed the bed to detach itself from the captain. "The primary bridge is either destroyed or unreachable," the Mixtec said conversationally. "Hayes and Jaguar were processed through here about six hours ago. Command and control has shifted to the secondary. I believe Smith-tzin is now acting duty officer."
A corpsman kicked over and took hold of the railing on the edge of the bed. "Kyo?"
"The Chu-sa needs to get to secondary control. Make sure he doesn't overexert himself while you're moving him." The doctor nodded to Hadeishi. "This man will take you there."
The Chu-sa nodded, still very weak and was happy to lie still, head back, while they detached the various tubes and sensors connecting him to the medical bed. He tried to muster the strength to ask if senior lieutenant Patrick Hayes and ensign Three-Jaguar had been 'processed' alive, dead, or crippled, but failed. The effort of holding back tears, of showing the dignity proper to a Fleet officer, was enough to exhaust the tiny store of energy left to him.
So many ghosts cling to your soul, the air whispered. Like the ship herself, only a tattered hull, filled with indistinct voices. Do you hear them calling your name?
Hadeishi curled his arm around the corpsman's shoulders and let himself be removed from the bed.
Near the Train Station The Streets of Parus
Mrs. Petrel limped to a halt, biting back an exhausted wheeze. Her thigh and hip stabbed with pain every time her foot came down on the broken concrete sidewalk. The three Imperials had come to the edge of a traffic circle where one of the grand avenues cutting through the tightly packed buildings intersected a spray of lesser streets. A jumbled pile of broken runner-carts had been pushed from the main road, making an impromptu barrier between a series of shops and one of the ancient trees lining the boulevard. There was broken glass and scattered dribs and drabs of cloth, plastic toys and sheets of charred pypil everywhere. Two of the shops were gutted, black holes in the face of the building.
"Ah now," Colmuir said quietly, coming up to her shoulder. "We've surely come the wrong way…"
The traffic circle ahead was crammed with vehicles – imported Imperial trucks; the flat, angular shapes of Jehanan troop carriers; even the hulking shape of an Aganu medium tank – and there were literally hundreds of native troops milling about. The rumbling engines filled the air with the stink of methanol and diesel. Most of the soldiers were squatting on the sidewalks, tails wrapped around their long feet, passing bottles and bhang-pipes from claw to claw. One of the troop carriers had its rear compartment open and four Jehanan mechanics were banging around in the engine, cursing and muttering at ancient machinery. Two short-horns pushed a cart past the soldiers, offering grilled spiced zizunaga on wooden tines. The clang of their advertising bell was nearly lost in the general murmur. None of the soldiers seemed interested.
"Do you see the building on the right?" Mrs. Petrel gasped, leaning her hands on her thighs. Oh my god, I hurt inside. I think I've ruptured something. "It's a hotel – a very expensive Jehanan hotel – where the kurbardar Humara makes his residence when he is in the city. There is a suite of rooms on the third floor…" She paused, coughed, hand over her mouth, listening with growing irritation to the smooth, self-satisfied voice chattering in her ear. "…which my husband and I once visited for a dinner party. The – uhhh! – commando who took the prince was wearing a regimental insignia from an elite battalion under Humara's command."
Colmuir grunted, looked askance at Dawd, who shrugged, just as worried as he. "So you think they've taken the lad in there? T' drag before the general and gain their honor for a braw captive?"
Mrs. Petrel nodded weakly and forced herself to stand up straight. The tree afforded her some support and her hands pressed against the crinkly bark with relief. "Humara will be ecstatic to have the prince in his claws. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't make the boy call on the Imperial troops on the planet to surrender."
"Ha!" Dawd smiled in grim amusement. "I'm sure Tlacateccatl Yacatolli will immediately send forth a noble envoy to the sound of drums, trumpets and whistles when he hears the news! He will have some choice words to say about such a turn of events… Doesn't Humara know the Mйxica don't believe in surrender, or in ransoming captives? The colonel is more likely to demand the boy be sacrificed, as was done in the old days!"