His own voice lowered. “Do you hate them?” As 1 do? A different kind of intimate question.
Her outslung lips twisted in thought. “I suppose … I was terribly manipulated by them when I was growing up, but it didn’t seem like abuse to me at the time. There were a lot of uncomfortable tests, but, it was all science … there wasn’t any intent to hurt in it. It didn’t really hurt till they sold me to Ryoval’s, after the super-soldier project was cancelled. What Ryoval’s wanted to do to me was grotesque, but that was just the nature of Ryoval’s. It was Bharaputra … Bharaputra that didn’t care. That threw me away. That hurt. But then you came …” She brightened. “A knight in shining armor and all that.”
A familiar, surly wave of resentment washed over him. Bugger the knight in shining armor, and the horse he rode in on. And, I can rescue people too, dammit! She was looking away, fortunately, and didn’t catch the spasm of anger in his face. Or perhaps she took it for anger at their former tormentors.
“But for all that,” she murmured, “I would not have even existed, without House Bharaputra. They made me. I am alive, for however long … shall I return death for life?” Her strange distorted face grew deeply introspective.
This was not the ideal gung-ho frame of mind to inculcate in a commando on a drop mission, he realized belatedly. “Not … necessarily. We’re here to rescue clones, not kill Bharaputran employees. We kill only if forced to, eh?”
This was good Naismithery; her head came up, and she grinned at him. “I’m so relieved you’re feeling better. I was terribly worried. I wanted to see you, but Captain Thorne wouldn’t allow it.” Her eyes warmed like bright yellow flames.
“Yes, I was … very ill. Thorne did right. But … maybe we can talk more on the way home.” When this was over. When he’d earned the right … earned the right to what?
“You got a date, Admiral.” She winked at him, and straightened, ferociously joyous. What have I promised? She bounded forward, happily sergeantly again, to oversee her squad.
He followed her into the combat-drop shuttle. The light level was much lower in here, the air colder, and, of course, there was no gravity. He floated forward from hand-grip to hand-grip after Captain Thorne, mentally dividing up the floor space for his intended cargo. Twelve or fifteen rows of kids seated four across … there was plenty of room. This shuttle was equipped to carry two squads, plus armored hovercars or a whole field hospital. It had a first-aid station at the back, including four fold-down bunks and a portable emergency cryo-chamber. The Dendarii commando-medic was rapidly organizing his area and battening down his supplies. Everything was being fastened down, by quietly-moving fatigue-clad soldiers, with very little fuss or conversation. A place for everything and everything in its place.
The shuttle pilot was at his post. Thorne took the co-pilot’s seat. He took a communication station chair just behind them. Out the front window he could see distant hard-edged stars, nearby the winking colored lights of some human activity, and, at the very edge of the field of view, the bright slice of the planet’s curvature. Almost home. His belly fluttered, and not just from zero-gee. Bands of tightness throbbed around his head beneath his helmet-straps.
The pilot hit his intercom. “Gimme a body-check back there, Taura. We’ve got a five-minute thrust to match orbit, then we blow bolts and drop.”
After a moment Sergeant Taura’s voice returned, “Check. All troops tied down, hatch sealed. We are ready. Go-repeat-go.”
Thorne glanced over its shoulder, and pointed. Hastily, he fastened his seat straps, and just in time. The straps bit deeply, and he lurched from side to side as the Ariel shuddered into its parking orbit, accelerative effects that would have been compensated for and nullified by the artificial gravity generated between the decks of the larger ship.
The pilot poised his hands, and abruptly dropped them, as if he were a musician playing some crescendo. Loud, startling clanks reverberated through the fuselage. Ululating whoops keened in response from the compartment behind the flight deck.
When they say drop, he thought wildly, they mean it. Stars and the planet turned, nauseatingly, in the forward window. He closed his eyes; his stomach tried to climb his esophagus. He suddenly realized a hidden advantage to full space armor. If you shit yourself with terror, going down, the suit’s plumbing would take care of it, and no one would ever know.
Air began to scream over the outer hull as they hit the ionosphere. His seat straps tried to slice him like an egg. “Fun, huh?” yelled Thorne, grinning like a loon, its face distorted and lips flapping with deceleration. They were pointed straight down, or so the shuttle’s nose was aimed, although his seat was attempting to eject him into the cabin ceiling with neck-breaking and skull-smashing force.
“I sure hope there’s nothing in our way,” the pilot yelled cheerfully. “This hasn’t been cleared with anybody’s flight control, y’know!”
He pictured a mid-air collision with a large commercial passenger shuttle … five hundred women and children aboard … vast yellow and black explosions and arcing bodies… .
They crossed the terminator into twilight. Then darkness, whipping clouds … bigger clouds … shuttle vibrating and bellowing like an insane tuba … still pointed straight down, he swore, though how the pilot could tell in this screaming fog he did not know.
Then, suddenly, they were level as an airshuttle, clouds above, lights of a town like jewels spilled on a carpet below. An airshuttle that was dropping like a rock. His spine began to compress, harder, harder. More hideous clanks, as the shuttle’s feet extended. An array of half-lit building bulked below. A darkened playing-court— Shit, that’s it, that’s it! The buildings loomed up beside them, above them. Thud-crunch-crunch. A solid, six-legged landing. The silence stunned him.
“All right, let’s go!” Thorne swung up out of its seat, face flushed, eyes lit, with blood-lust or fear or both he could not tell.
He tramped down the ramp in the wake of a dozen Dendarii. His eyes were about half dark-adapted, and there were enough lights around the complex, diffused by the cool and misty midnight air, that he had no trouble seeing, though the view was drained of color. The shadows were black and sinister. Sergeant Taura, with silent hand signals, divided her squad. No one was making noise. Silent faces were gilded by brief staccato flashes of light as their helmet vids supplied some data bit or another, projected to the side of their vision. One Dendarii, with extra ’scopes on her helmet, rolled out a personal float-bike, mounted it, and rose quietly into the darkness. Air cover.
The pilot stayed aboard, and Taura counted off four other Dendarii. Two vanished into the shadows of the perimeter, two stayed with the shuttle as rear-guard. He and Thorne had argued about that. Thorne had wanted more perimeter. His own gut-feel was that they would need as many troopers as possible at the clone-creche. The civilian hospital guards were little threat, and it would take time for their better-armed back-up to arrive. By then, the Dendarii would be gone, if they could move the clones along fast enough. He cursed himself, in retrospect, for not ordering two commando squads instead of one, back at Escobar. He could have done so, just as easily, but he’d been caught up in calculations about the Ariel’s passenger capacity, and fancied himself conserving life support for the final escape. So many factors to balance.