“Is exactly the kind of trap you’ve always gone on about!” Gretchen snarled, circling to put herself between him and the stairs. “A fortune no one can spend, a tool no one dare wield. Do you grasp the enormity of what lies below us, incubating in the forge of creation? Do you know how long you would last under their influence?”
Hummingbird-sidling along the console-stopped, a questioning expression stealing over his scarred old features. “Do you know? Have you seen them, comprehended them?”
What? Oh Lady of the Seven Stars, he has no idea what is going on here! Anderssen hefted the field tool, finding a surety of purpose in the heavy, oiled metal. “Goddamned Crow, you didn’t even know what you might unlock when you set the Prince against this place? What were you hoping to gain? The weapons technology behind the barrier of knives? Some fragments of the wisdom of the Vay’en themselves?”
“At the most,” he said, voice settling into something like its old calm, “the annihilation of the Prince, the Khaid, even the poor Ambassador and my own life in the bargain. A clean set of books-nothing falling into the Emperor’s hands to upset the balance at home-and time. Time we desperately need.”
“Against what black day?” Gretchen eased closer, the tool raised, her eyes fixed on his midsection. “Opening this tomb door would vomit up the annihilation of our entire species-isn’t that your eternal fear?-well, here you were right!”
She lunged again, snapping the tool around in a fast, sharp arc. Hummingbird bolted, twisting his shattered arm into the path of the spike. The point gouged into his z-suit, bouncing from a metal plate and snagging in the gel at the elbow. Gretchen wretched the tool away, but the nauallis slammed his working forearm into her faceplate, cracking a metal wristband against the glassite with a ringing blow. Stunned, Anderssen skipped back, desperate to retain her weapon.
“I never meant to wake the powers sleeping here!” Hummingbird gasped. “I was used in turn, Doctor, by a Senescalcus of Templars. He-it-is stronger than I understood. It pushed my mind, sent me down this course-sent them along, the Knights, to ensure the message we heard from Piet’s lips was delivered!”
Gretchen froze, a flash of memory resurfacing. One survived. One still survives.
Then she moved again, vastly relieved. The last shred of conscience which had lain upon her, holding back her fury, evaporated. Something in her expression must have transformed as well, for Hummingbird hissed in anger and darted away from her, trying to cut across the gap between the consoles and the pit. Anderssen leapt after him, feeling a joyful strength filling her body. She caught him two paces from the edge of the shaft, dodged past his outflung arm, and smashed the tool across his faceplate and shoulder. Sparks leapt back, the old man crashed to the floor, and atmosphere hissed, obscuring his faceplate.
“Ahhh!” His cry of pain echoed on her comm. Anderssen pounced, pinning him to the floor with one knee. The point of the tool ground against his armpit, tearing at the gel.
“Anderssen, please! Remember your family, remember they need you to come home-to provide for them! Isabelle, Tristan-they can still benefit-the calmecac schools can be moved to accept them. Ahhh!”
The spike punched through into his side, blood boiling away into vapor as it welled around the metal.
“There’s nothing you can offer me, Crow, which will buy your life.” Gretchen’s voice was cold, her heart filling with a tremendous pressure as his face contorted behind the faceplate. “You can promise only ash and broken shells. Your gifts are only death and suffering-”
“Duncan,” he gasped, trying to catch her eyes, his old face tight with terrible pain. “There are universities on Anahuac who will still take him; he can be all you desired, you can-”
“My son is dead,” she said, wrenching the field tool free and standing up. “My son is dead.”
Atmosphere hissed from the gaping wound. Hummingbird’s faceplate frosted over and she could hear a tight, harsh gasp of pain over her comm. The nauallis’ body jerked spasmodically, limbs stiffening. He tried to roll over, to get his feet beneath him. Gretchen took a step back, and then jammed her boot into the old man’s side, sending him sliding across the mirror-bright floor. His good hand scrabbled wildly on the surface-then he tipped over the edge, just like Sahane and the pilot.
The comm circuit cut off, leaving only Anderssen’s harsh, bellowslike rasp echoing in her ears.
It’s done. It’s all done.
The shuttle’s cargo door swung up with a whine and spacers in white-and-brown z-suits helped Hadeishi and the remains of his crew out into a huge, brightly lit boat-bay. Mitsuharu looked over the faces of his men with a measuring eye. They were all bloody, bruised, and pale with exhaustion. Some of these men have crewed three ships in this one venture. In spite of the heavy losses, he felt great relief and pride at the spirit of his surviving crew. Not one of them seemed impressed by the shining new ship surrounding them, or the ranks of armored men arrayed across the floor of the bay. Enormous banners hung from the walls, showing a crimson cross on a white field. And now another ship, another berth. Lost travelers on the road to the holy city, redeemed from bandits and rogues by the cross-men. Then he caught sight of a familiar face and smiled broadly through the grease and carbon he knew crusted his face and helmet. “ Konnichi-wa, Sencho-sana.”
Captain De Molay was waiting impatiently, arms crossed, one foot tapping on the deck. She was kitted out in the same white-and-brown space-armor as the ship’s crew. Her rank insignia was quite polished; a squared crimson cross flamed on her breast. She saluted stiffly. Wounds from the Khaiden ambush not yet mended.
“ Chu-sa Hadeishi, welcome aboard the Pilgrim.”
Mitsuharu nodded, and then returned the salute with a hand trembling with fatigue. “Our fortune improves. And my men?”
“We’ve taken almost sixty aboard already, and there are more on shuttles inbound.” The elderly woman offered him a sombre expression. “ Our medical facilities are first-rate.”
“ Infirmus fui et visitastis me,” Mitsuharu returned soberly.
De Molay stared at him in surprise, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile. “‘I was sick and you visited me.’ That is-”
“The twentieth rule,” he said, nodding to the cross on her breastplate. “This is a strike-carrier of the Order of the Temple; I would say a refitted Norsktek Galahad -class hull with-by what I saw from the shuttle viewport-an entirely upgraded drive array. Out of the yards on New Malta?”
“It is indeed,” De Molay said, pleased. “And it is appropriate that you have attended to all her details.”
Mitsuharu’s thin black eyebrows lifted in query.
“In good time, Chu-sa,” De Molay said with no emotion whatever. “If you will step over here, please.” She guided him away from the others. Templar medical staff were everywhere in the bay, triaging the rescued Imperials. A line of grav-sleds was waiting to take the survivors away. “Come with me, there is someone who has waited a long time to see you again.”
In the tube-car, Mitsuharu closed his eyes-for just a moment-and fell sound asleep against the upholstered chair.
Tap-tap-tap went the blind man’s bamboo cane on the side of the road, ticking against the mossy rocks laid at the border. Musashi was dozing, nearly asleep in the shelter of the little shrine. Rain was drumming on the slanted, tiled roof, but his head was dry on a bundle of cloth holding the rice-paper book he’d been so laboriously writing in. He opened one eye halfway as the shuffling mendicant ducked under the eaves. “Ah, pardon,” wheezed a tired voice. “Just getting out of the rain.”
“Welcome, brother,” Musashi replied, moving his legs out of the way. Both shins were bound in bandages. “I’d offer you tea-if I had any-or a rice ball-if I had one. But I’ve neither, so you’re welcome to the dry roof at least.”