Fell Station was just now passing out of the planet’s eclipse, the advancing line of sunlight dramatically unveiling its vast extent. They decelerated toward one arm, giving up direction to Fell’s traffic controllers and some heavily armed tugs which appeared out of nowhere to escort them. And there was the Peregrine, coasting in. The drop shuttles and the fighter shuttles all gavotted around their mother ship, coming meekly to their docking clamps. The Peregrine itself eased delicately toward its assigned mooring.
With a clank of the portside clamps and the hiss of flex-tube seals, they were home. In the cargo bay, the Dendarii expedited removal of the wounded to the Peregrine’s infirmary, then turned much more slowly and wearily to tie-down and clean-up chores. Quinn shot past them, Thorne close on her heels. As if pulled by that mortal red ribbon, Mark followed.
The goal of Quinn’s mad dash was the starboard side shuttle hatch, where Framingham’s shuttle was coming to dock. They arrived there just as the flex-tube seals were secured, then had to stand out of the way as the wounded were rushed out first. Mark was disturbed to recognize Trooper Tonkin, who had accompanied Norwood the medic, among them. Tonkin had reversed roles, from guard to patient. His face was dark and still, unconscious, as eager hands hustled him past and shifted him onto a float pallet. Something’s very wrong, here.
Quinn shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Other Dendarii troopers started to exit, herding clones. Quinn frowned, and shouldered upstream past them through the flex tube and into the shuttle.
Thorne and Mark went after her into free fall chaos. There were clone-youths everywhere, some crying, some violently sick—Dendarii were attempting to catch them, and get them towed to the exit. One harried trooper with a hand-vac was chasing floating globs of some child’s last meal before everyone had to breathe it. The shouts and screams and babble were like a blow to the mind. Framingham’s bellows were failing to speed a return to military order any faster than the terrorized clones could be removed from the cargo bay.
“Framingham!” Quinn floated over and grabbed him by the ankle. “Framingham! Where the hell’s the cryo-chamber Norwood was escorting?”
He glanced down, frowning. “But you said you had it, Captain.” What?”
“You said you had Phillipi.” His lips stretched in a fierce grimace, “Goddammit, if we’ve left her behind I’ll—”
We have Phillipi, yes, but she’s—she was no longer in the cryo-chamber. Norwood was supposed to be getting it to you, Norwood and Tonkin.”
“They didn’t have it when my rescue patrol pulled them out. We them both, what was left of ’em. Norwood was killed. Hit through eye with one of those frigging projectile spine-grenades. Blew his head apart. But I didn’t leave his body, it’s in the bag over there.” Command helmets draw fire, oh yes, I knew that… . No wonder Quinn hadn’t been able to raise Norwood’s comm channels.
“The cryo-chamber, Framingham!” Quinn’s voice held a high pitch anguish Mark had never heard before.
“We didn’t see any goddamn cryo-chamber, Quinn! Norwood and Tonkin didn’t have it when we got to them! What’s so frigging important about the cryo-chamber if Phillipi wasn’t even in it?” Quinn released his ankle, and floated in a tightening ball, arms and legs drawing in. Her eyes were dark and huge. She bit off a string of inadequate foul words, grinding her teeth so hard her gums went white. Thorne looked like a chalk doll.
“Thorne,” Quinn said, when she could speak again. “Get on the comm to Elena. I want both ships on a total security blackout, as of now. No leaves, no passes, no communications with Fell Station or anybody else that isn’t cleared by me. Tell her to get Lieutenant Hart over here from the Ariel. I want to meet with them both at once, do not over comm channels. Go.”
Thorne nodded, rotated in air, and launched itself forward toward the flight deck.
“What is this?” demanded Sergeant Framingham. Quinn took a deep, slow breath. “Framingham, we left the Admiral downside.”
“Have you lost your mind, he’s right there—” Framingham’s finger sagged in mid-point at Mark. His hand closed into a fist. “Oh.” He realized. “That’s the clone.”
Quinn’s eyes burned; Mark could feel them boring through to the back of his skull like laser-drills. “Maybe not,” Quinn said heavily. “Not as far as House Bharaputra needs to know.”
“Ah?” Framingham’s eyes narrowed in speculation. No! Mark screamed inside. Silently. Very silently.
Chapter Eight
It was like being trapped in a locked room with half a dozen serial killers with hangovers. Mark could hear each one’s breathing from where they sat in a ring around the officer’s conference table. They were in the briefing chamber off the Peregrine’s main tactics room. Quinn’s breath was the lightest and fastest, Sergeant Taura’s was the deepest and most ominous. Only Elena Bothari-Jesek at her captain’s place at the head of the table, and Lieutenant Hart on her right, were shipboard-clean and natty. The rest had come as they were from the drop mission, battered and stinking: Taura, Sergeant Framingham, Lieutenant Kimura, Quinn on Bothari-Jesek’s left. And himself, of course, lonely at the far end of the oblong table.
Captain Bothari-Jesek frowned, and wordlessly handed around a bottle of painkiller tablets. Sergeant Taura took six. Only Lieutenant Kimura passed. Taura handed them across to Framingham without offering any to Mark. He longed for the tablets as a thirsty man might yearn after a glass of water, poured out and sinking into desert sand. The bottle went back up the table and disappeared into the captain’s pocket. Mark’s eyes throbbed in time to his sinuses, and the back of his head felt tight as drying rawhide.
Bothari-Jesek spoke. “This emergency debriefing is called to deal with just two questions, and as quickly as possible. What the hell happened, and what are we going to do next? Are those helmet recorders on their way?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sergeant Framingham. “Corporal Abromov is bringing them.”
“Unfortunately, we are missing the most pertinent one,” said Quinn. “Correct, Framingham?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am. I suppose it’s embedded in a wall somewhere at Bharaputra’s, along with most of the rest of Norwood’s helmet. Friggin’ grenades.”
“Hells.” Quinn hunched in her seat.
The briefing room door slid open, and Corporal Abromov entered at a jog. He carried four small, clear plastic trays, stacked, and labeled “Green Squad,” “Yellow Squad,” “Orange Squad,” and “Blue Squad.” Each tray held an array of ten to sixteen tiny buttons. Helmet recorders. Each trooper’s personal records of the past hours, tracking every movement, every heartbeat, every scan, shot, hit, and communication. Events that had passed too rapidly for comprehension in real-time could be slowed, analyzed, teased apart, errors of procedure detected and corrected—next time.
Abromov saluted and handed the trays to Captain Bothari-Jesek. She dismissed him with thanks, and passed the trays on to Captain Quinn, who in turn inserted them into the simulator’s data slot and downloaded them. She also encoded the file top secret. Her raw-tipped fingers darted over the vid control panel.
The now-familiar ghostly three-dimensional holomap of Bharaputra’s medical facility formed above the table top. “I’ll jump forward to the time we were attacked in the tunnel,” Quinn said. “There we are, Blue Squad, part of Green Squad …” A spaghetti-tangle of lines of green and blue colored light appeared deep inside a misty building. “Tonkin was Blue Squad Number Six, and kept his helmet throughout what follows.” She made Tonkin’s Number Six map-track yellow, for contrast. “Norwood was still wearing Blue Squad Number Ten. Mark …” her lips pinched, “was wearing Helmet One.” That track, of course, was conspicuously missing. She made Norwood’s Number Ten track pink. “At what point did you change helmets with Norwood, Mark?” She did not look at him as she asked this question.