"Where did this come from?" Gretchen felt her heart lurch, knowing the original had been blasted away into nothingness with the Gagarin.
"Your exec sent the xocoatl and the picture over from the Palenque." Hadeishi's expression had become composed and polite again, but his eyes were shining. "The origami is from Gunso Fitzsimmons, though I did not know he had learned to make such fine examples himself. I suspect — " he visibly suppressed a merry grin "- he begged them from communications technician three Tiss-tzin, who is noted among the crew for her nimble fingers."
"That is very sweet." Gretchen ran her hand across the surface of the 3v. The electropaper was fresh and thick and carrying a full charge. Pressing her lips together and blinking back tears, she pressed the upper right corner of the picture.
Mom! Mom! We're mermaids! Mermaids!
Am not, I'm a merman!
She moved her finger away and the bouncing, splashing figures stilled. I'll see you soon, she promised them. I'm coming home.
"What about you?" Gretchen lifted her head, trying to see if the captain had anything on his side table. It was bare, save for a matching half-full glass of water. "Nothing?"
"I believe there were cupcakes," Hadeishi said, rather solemnly. "From Marine Heicho Felix, in apology for getting me shot while we were aboard the Turan. But I was asleep when she brought them by. I think," his eyebrows narrowed in suspicion, "Fitzsimmons ate them."
"Oh." Gretchen pressed the 3v against her breast. For a wonder, she didn't feel at all tired or sleepy. "That was rude. He's in the brig then?"
The passage leading into the number one boat bay was cold in comparison to the medical pod. Gretchen shivered a little, rubbing her arms. Fitzsimmons had tried to loan her a heavy leather pilot's jacket for the trip across to the Palenque, but she'd refused. The Marine spent enough time loitering around, all charming and friendly, without her borrowing his clothes. I've been down that road before, she thought, stepping over the sill into the cavernous, echoing space of the bay itself. Next it's audiotracks and 3v recordings and before you know it, they're snoring in your ear late on Sunday mornings.
One husband was enough, she thought, patting the sidebag filled with her paltry collection of personal effects. Most of the things in the bag had accumulated while she was recuperating in medical. Some photos, including a new one of the Gagarin and a dupe of the Rossiyan icon Russovsky had left behind, presents from the Company scientists: an ink-brush drawing of Magdalena on rice paper from Sho-sa Kosho: and instructions from the Cornuelle's doctor.
The crewman guiding her through the maze of the ship turned. "This is your shuttle, ma'am. Have a safe flight."
"Thank you." Gretchen nodded and walked across the open expanse of the deck, following a painted walkway. The military shuttle loomed up before her, back-swept wings sleek and dark, the tail fins glossy and shining with the snake-eagle-arrow glyph of the Fleet. A raptor where our Company shuttles are fat brown hens.
"Anderssen-tzin."
Hummingbird stepped out from beneath the wing. Gretchen slowed to a halt, surprised and pleased to see him. "Hello, Crow! How are you doing? They said you'd been released from medical early."
The nauallis did not respond to her light tone, his face a chiseled mask. Instead he looked from side to side as if making sure none of the crewmen working in the bay were near enough to overhear. "You will have to file a report," he said in a stiff, rather cool tone. "I suggest you mention as few details about our foray to the surface as possible. Any scientific data you wish to relate is, of course, up to you. I would restrain any speculation about the life-forms on the planet to that which can be proven."
Gretchen felt her good humor — and living instead of dying usually made her very cheerful — fade in the face of this cold reception. Her eyes narrowed and she looked him up and down very slowly. He seemed larger in a cream-colored mantlelike shirt, pleated dark trousers and civilian shoes. In the z-suit he'd seemed small and wiry, lean enough to survive in the desert. Now he looks like a Company lawyer, she decided and the last of her cheerfulness disappeared.
"I guess I'm not a copy," she said in a dry tone. He nodded very slightly in answer.
Long absent from her thoughts, a memory of the cylinder-book surfaced. Considering the prize in retrospect, she weighed, judged and decided the secrets inside the ancient device would not be unlocked by her. The decision — made in an instant — left her oddly peaceful. The kids will still have shoes, even if they're not imported leather.
"The matter of your life aside, I understand," she said in an equally formal tone. "My report will reflect the professionalism and excellence of all Fleet and government personnel involved in the operation. I will take equal care with any conclusions which may affect the security of the Empire."
Hummingbird nodded, unfazed by the withering glare she'd turned on him.
"Is there anything else you wanted to know?"
He shook his head, hands clasped behind his back.
"I have one question for you, Huitziloxoctic-tzin." Gretchen matched his formal posture, realizing with a tiny bite of delight she was noticeably taller than he was. She tilted her head a little to the side, pinning him with a considering expression. "My medband has been taken away. When I get a new one on the Palenque or on Ctesiphon Station or at my next dig, will I find there is some kind of exotic drug in my system?"
The nauallis's expression did not change, but there was a dark flicker in his eyes.
"I've not experienced any unusual effects of sight since I woke up." Her lips parted slightly, showing white teeth. "Even when I settle my mind and let my thoughts become calm. Now, my memory has been damaged, but I haven't forgotten everything that happened down on the planet. Did you really think I was so untrustworthy you needed to drug me? Did you really think I would tell anyone you'd broken tradition to show me this tiny, paltry bit of your precious knowledge?"
Hummingbird did not respond, his face becoming even more still, more masklike. Disgusted, Gretchen turned away and climbed the steps into the shuttle. A crewman inside the door directed her forward and the pressure door levered up with a hiss to close with a solid, heavy thud.
Settling into her seat for the thirty-minute flight to the Palenque, Gretchen rolled her shoulders and let out a long, angry hiss. Against all expectation, she'd thought Hummingbird might trust her just a little. Stupid old fool. Did he think I'd blab to everyone what I saw, what I did? I work for a bureaucracy too.
And that thought crushed the rest of her lightheartedness. She rubbed her left eye, feeling an incipient twinge. Reports. Oh, the reports I will have to file. Company property, loss of — one Temple-class starship gutted, one completely equipped base camp abandoned, two Midge-class ultralights destroyed, two Komodo-class shuttles severely damaged, ten Company staff dead in the line of duty — data recovered, minimal. Artifacts recovered — none. Opportunities for follow-up research — none, system sealed by Imperial interdict. Chances for staff to publish data and gain tenure, university position or even a publication byline — none, data sealed by order, Imperial Office of the Tlachialoni — the Mirror-Which-Reveals.
Sullenly, she stared out the window, though the sight of the Palenque drawing closer did not lift the gloom weighing on her. Maybe I should tell someone what happened…not the Company, maybe a 3v'zine like Temple of Truth or the Xonocatl. Then I'd have a few quills to shake in my hand.