Yi birds were fluting in the trees, Jehanan workers were picking through the debris, Marine guards were on every rooftop, keeping a wary eye on the surroundings. Everything seemed blessedly normal.
I'm alive, Gretchen thought, and her heart lifted to be out of the ruined house. The prospect of Petrel telling the Company what she'd done and their inevitable termination of her employment made her feel giddy. We're all alive – my little pack of troublemakers – and now I am going home. And my babies will be waiting, and my mother and even that feckless husband of mine. Even penniless, they will be glad to see me!
Anderssen smiled cheerfully at the guards in the Legation gateway and turned out onto the street, hands in the pockets of her field jacket. Around her, the city was beginning to stir to life again, citizens out chattering in the streets, aerocars droning overhead, the distant lonely sound of a steam-whistle hooting from the rail-yard.
Aboard the Starliner Asuka
Preparing to Leave Orbit Over Jagan
A first-class cabin door hissed open and Tezozуmoc stepped into a clean, sparkling room filled with inviting furniture. Soft music wafted on the cool, climate-controlled air. The young man stared around, drinking in every gram of luxury and his face brightened, looking into an adjoining bedroom.
"Oh, gods of my fathers and blessed Mother, look at the size of that bed! Four or five girls would fit easily!" The prince dropped a battered, grimy Army jacket on the floor and – before Colmuir or Dawd could say anything – stripped off his Jehanan cloak and discarded his skinsuit in an ugly, blood-and-oil-stained pile. Entirely naked, Tezozуmoc padded into the bathroom adjoining the main room of the suite and began to laugh hysterically.
"A shower and a tub! And towels, look at these towels!" The prince's head appeared in the doorway for a moment, one brown hand waving a plushy, gleaming white bath-towel and then vanished again. The sound of water running followed, and a yelp of mingled pain and delight as Tezozуmoc turned the taps on full hot.
Colmuir stared at the clothing discarded on the floor, dully noted the mess the boy had made of the carpet and wearily set down his duffel and gunrig on the couch. "This is a nice room," he said, on the verge of collapse himself. The Army medical staff had worked him over enough to get him aboard ship, but the master sergeant was in a bad way. He hurt from head to toe and even the resilience of his combatskin and the constant attentions of his medband couldn't overcome the bone-deep bruising and internal injuries he'd suffered. Worse, Colmuir felt unaccountably nervous and he didn't know why.
M' hackles are up, he realized, like we're still in th' thick of it…
Dawd let the door close behind him and stowed his own baggage. "We've the other bedroom, then? Better than the floor, I suppose."
The younger Skawtsman's face was bandaged and his combat goggles were still on. The lenses were dull black, as though he were standing outside in full sun. With a groan, Dawd slumped into a hugely overstuffed chair opposite Colmuir. In the bathroom, Tezozуmoc had begun to sing lustily, voice muffled by the rush of water. Clouds of steam drifted through the doorway.
The master sergeant managed a smile. "Well, our lad seems happy at last."
"You're not?" Dawd asked, letting his head fall back on the chair. "We're alive, he's alive. We'll be home on AnГЎhuac soon. A great victory all around, I think."
"Truth." Colmuir considered the prospect. "You're right. The boy didn't embarrass himself when the shooting started or get one of us killed. The Emperor might even be pleased by how things turned out…"
Dawd tried to laugh, producing a croaking sound. "I'm sure someone will decide the prince saved the day, crushed the rebellion and saved more than one fainting maiden by the time news gets back home."
"Ah, now, you're getting cynical." Colmuir gestured at the younger man's face. "Your eyes still recovering? Didn't they give you a supplemental 'band to speed up th' healing?"
"My eyes?" Dawd touched his goggles absently and then shook his head. "I'd forgotten I had these on." The sergeant lifted his head, indicating the bathroom. "Do you suppose he'll leave any hot water for us?"
"Probably not," Colmuir snorted, forcing himself to his feet. He stared at Dawd, tight-lipped. "Let me have a look at this injury of yours – if yuir eyes are still hurting, it's best you visited the ship's medbay…"
"Master Sergeant, I'm fine!" Dawd lifted a hand, stopping Colmuir – who was looking rather pale – from touching his goggles. "Another day or so and they'll be good as new."
"Let me see," Colmuir said, making a sharp, beckoning gesture. "I can tell when a man's hiding something – and you are, Sergeant – there's no sense in being stoic about an injury."
"Of course," Dawd said, rather stiffly. He lifted both hands and slowly removed the goggles. Behind them, his eyes were closed tight, and puffy with dark red bruising. Scorch marks scarred his left socket, and his bushy black eyebrows were ashy smears.
"Ah, lad, you look terrible!" Colmuir peered closer. A queer tickling sensation at the back of his neck was making him even more nervous. "D' they work at all?"
The master sergeant gently peeled back the lid of Dawd's right eye, revealing a massively dilated pupil surrounded by the thinnest verge of green. The whites were a rough, angry red. The sergeant hissed in pain, flinching away.
"Sorry," Colmuir said, shaking his head and turning away. "Tha' looks quite bad."
"No…trouble, Master Sergeant." Dawd gingerly put his goggles back on. In the brief instant before the glassite lenses once more obscured them, the ruined eyes rippled and shifted, subsuming the hastily extruded skin and swollen veins. Cold watery blue irises emerged from beneath the camouflage and purpled bruises faded as the shiftskin of the Lengian ‹sower|teacher|adjudicator› returned to an efficient and optimal configuration.
This ‹protector|guardian|hound› will have to be destroyed, the creature thought, with the faintest tinge of dismay, watching Master Sergeant Colmuir sit again, his lean old face pinched with pain. It is suspicious – heart-rate is elevated, senses are sharpened – by the Makers, its perceptual gestalt has determined I am not Sergeant Leslie Dawd at all. Now this one must be destroyed. What a waste of a superior gene-line…
Dawd licked his lips, then said: "Master Sergeant, if you don't mind my asking – have you any children?"
"Me?" Colmuir was entirely taken aback by the question. He laughed, running a scarred hand through short, springy gray-black hair. "Oh, scads, I'm sure. Somewhere. Why?"
Dawd nodded to himself, pleased. "Nothing, Master Sergeant. I was just suddenly curious."
"Ah!" Tezozуmoc bounded back into the main room, glistening and clean, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. The prince seemed, for once, actually happy. "Let's order room service," he declared, grinning foolishly at his two bodyguards, and snatching up a portable comm-plate emblazoned with the swan-mon of the liner. "Let's see just how good their liquor cabinet is!"
Colmuir grunted, but a smile was beginning to show on his lips. "Ah, I would not refuse a fine Skawts whiskey today, mi'lord, no I would not."
"Excellent!" Tezozуmoc turned to the creature sitting so comfortably in the shape of a man. "Dawd, what'll you have?"
"Whatever you're having, mi'lord," the Lengian replied, making a bit of a bow towards the prince. "Whatever you're having."