Rusty stood with the weapon trained on the guard, his arm surprisingly steady. He felt as though he longer controlled his own actions, that he was a bystander in his body while someone else caused the muscles to move, to obey commands other than his own. The guard seemed as surprised as he was, but he felt no change of expression, no imperative to withdraw from his actions—just a distant sensation of being an observer of himself. The corridor around him faded from his awareness as a memory took hold, scenes of another time and place when he had held a weapon much like this one.
Although he was certain that he remained in the passageway, even the odors of the past came to him: the smells of damp foliage, wet earth, fear-soaked perspiration . . . blood. His combat uniform was covered with large splashes of it; none was his. That, he knew, was not likely to continue. He waited with the other members of his small team, listening.
"What do you we do now?" a young female in gray fatigues, one of her forearms wrapped with a damp bandage, whispered.
Rusty studied her for a moment. Too young, he thought. Way too young to see this kind of carnage. "We entrench ourselves and wait," he told her, his gaze sweeping the other soldiers as well. "Let said they'd be back for us."
She swallowed nervously, but accepted his statement. I just wish I knew it was true, he thought silently. His troop was on the starship's assault crew's path back to their lander, so there was every chance they would be forced to come back this way. In the meantime, his team's sole goal was to stay alive and evade detection until that happened. At his signal, they separated, fading into the heavy-foliage. The small clearing became quiet again.
Rusty felt himself shiver. It took him only a moment to realize that it was not a result of the clammy, cold environment of the alien rain forest. The unsanctioned—although still widely used—drugs he had taken earlier to augment his reaction time were wearing off. That's the problem with those hyperstims . . . he considered glumly as another tremor run through him.
He glanced around at the bushes, wondering how many of the others were in the same shape. Not many, he guessed, thinking that his own body had probably built up a considerable tolerance to the drugs because of his other . . . recreational uses. He had perhaps half a dosage left in his pack. It would not give him the high of ultra-awareness, but it should stave off the worst of the withdrawal effects until he could get to the ship.
The sound of leaves being trod into the sodden earth seized his waning attention. Even though his hands tightened around his pulse rifle, he presumed it was dark-haired officer and her assault team returning. The thought was obliterated by the sudden appearance of a bright white-red flash that filled the clearing. The passage of time seemed to slow between the moment of the flash and the sensation of being tossed back by the concussive wave. He slid along the muddy ground, but so slowly he could not be certain that it was actually happening.
Time then seemed to resume its normal speed with agonizing swiftness. He still trembled, but now from a new cause. His left side felt strangely numb. He thought it should hurt, but the pain seemed surprisingly remote. He looked up to see a dark-clad figure hunched over him. Its oily snout opened slightly, exposing rows of small, needle-sharp teeth. It grunted something at him. The harsh, grating noise issuing from beyond those teeth told him that his communications unit, with its integrated translator, had been damaged or lost in the gray-brown muck around him. He tried to rise, but his muscles were reluctant to obey. He managed, taking far more effort than he thought it should, to raise his body a few centimeters before collapsing back into the greasy sludge.
What passed for a smile on the alien's face broadened and it made several additional sounds that sounded to Rusty like it was choking on gravel. Its expression changed abruptly and Rusty noticed a dark blossom of shining black ooze begin to pour from the alien's chest. Its eyes registered confused surprise as it released the hold on its weapon. The rifle hit the mud with a light slapping down, followed by the much louder splat of the alien soldier doing the same. It twitched once, its entire body shuddered, and then it remained still.
He heard muted sounds of explosions—or it might have weapons fire, he could not be certain. His numbness began to recede, dissipating like a cloud torn by the wind. The throbbing, burning pain in his side told him that he had injured—badly. Trying to rise again, he nearly lost consciousness from the flood of pain his effort brought.
He heard the wet sound of a boot in the mud. Moving only his eyes, he looked ahead to find the dark-haired woman staring down at him with an expression of casual disgust. "Leave them to the Argolians," she said. She gave Rusty one more glance and then marched away, pausing only to adjust the pack on her shoulder before disappearing into the foliage. Rusty sank back, feeling the sludge start to cover him. He turned his head, trying to see if any of his team had survived. His vision was clouded by mud and pain and he was unable to see unclearly. He knew he was going to die, but whether from his wound or the agony of withdrawal he did not know. Feeling the cool mud against his skin, he remembered that he had hoped to meet death in a place far different than this.
Another footstep sounded near him, this one smaller and lighter than the one before. He blinked, managing to clear his vision, and stared up into a pale, narrow face. She had wide dark eyes, almond-shaped and missing the pupils of a human. He could make out the tips of her ears poking through her short hair. There was something overtly menacing about her, but not in the same way the Argolian soldier had been. He felt as though he was slipping away, sliding toward an abyss that was both frightening and comforting at the same time. The pale alien knelt before him, studying his injury. Her dark eyes flickered for a moment and then she reached out to touch him.
He wanted to scream as her hand pressed against his wound. Then the pain stopped and he felt sudden warmth filling that side of his body. The warmth faded and he found that he could breathe easier. He knew that he was still badly wounded, but it felt less immediately fatal now. He tried to raise himself on his elbows and received a sharp look from the dark-eyed alien.
"Remain still," she said. Her voice was high and quiet, but carried an undeniable tone of command. Rusty relaxed back to the ground, watching as she pulled a cylinder from the belt at her waist. She checked it and then pressed it against his right shoulder.
Within moments, the pain subsided almost entirely. He found that he could also move easily now.
"Come," she said, rising to her feet. "Little time remains." She waited while he got to his feet. When he reached down for the Argolian's weapon, she said, "Leave it. Come."
She headed lightly into the foliage, seeming to Rusty for a moment like a woodland nymph. Rusty followed, staggering slightly, and tried not to think about the gaping wound in his side.
He reached the landing area several paces behind her. She paused at the ramp, watching him with her dark, impenetrable eyes as he shambled toward the ship. His boot caught on the edge of ramp and he stumbled, falling onto his back. The impact of his head against the metal jarred his teeth, filling him with a wave of dizziness. He waited a moment, took a deep breath to clear his mind, and then tried to rise.
His arms collapsed, refusing to bear his weight. The sense of vertigo returned. His vision swirled into incomprehensible images that dissolved into darkness.
The next time he saw her face, he was laying on padded platform in the ship's infirmary. Although his mind remained mildly fuzzy, he could tell that his injuries had been healed.
"You will stay with us now," she said, staring down at him with an expression that he could not decipher.
That expression returned to him now, in the corridor, as she stared at him. The flash of memories had come, gone, and his hold on the weapon had never wavered.
#
The First watched as the second shift assumed their stations. The sudden disruption unsettled him for no reasons he could name. He briefly considered ordering those at their posts to remain there, but realized that, other than to satisfy his own sense of discomfiture, he had no real reason to do so. He waited while the crewmen exchanged status reports in barely audible whispers and then nearly breathed an audible sigh of relief as the last of them left the bridge and the relative quiet was restored.
He was silently grateful for the older officer’s request to stay. Although he was uncertain of the man’s loyalties, he was confident that Hawke’s primary focus would be to protect the Sapphire Night, regardless of who commanded her.
Although he stared at the stars on the main screen, he did not see them. His thoughts were elsewhere, wandering among the confusing events of the past few days. One person might hold the key to it all too, he thought. What was taking them so long to bring him to the bridge? Even if the Chief was truly the traitor, or in league with whomever it was, Thompson could not see him overcoming two armed security guards—not without considerable assistance. At least one of them, even under those circumstances, should be able to raise an alarm. Why was it taking so long then?
He scowled, feeling some of the tension drain away. Of course, he thought, that alien witch was down there. She was probably issuing her own orders, delaying things. He considered sending another set of guards to check on the situation. Looking around the bridge, he decided against it—he felt too vulnerable, even here, while the sensors were not operating.
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