Explorer

But the more that line of refugees grew, the more people would begin to realize the station was in trouble, and when neighbors started leaving, people started calling those they cared about. By now, anyone calling Central might not get through. And a failure of communications meant a spread of rumor, in a station already half-dead, already having lost one essential asset, and all protection from alien incursion. Families were taking the ship’s offer. Individuals with non-critical jobs were. Probably a few with critical jobs had begun to weigh staying and going, and if one bolted—more would.

Faster and faster. More and more desperate. They’d gotten through a line reasonably well-ordered and willing to reason, in this early stage of the evacuation. Later—as systems started failing—panic was going to pack more and more people into that line.

“We still ca

“Soon, at least, Jago-ji,” he said. “One believes Gin has relayed reassurances to Jase. And perhaps Sabin-aiji has gotten through.”

Warning lights flashed red. The car began deceleration and the comfortable illusion of up and down shifted, an assault on a stomach already uncertain—he didn’t like this, didn’t like it, stared at the indicators for proof of their location in time and space, reassurance of destination imminent.

The car stopped. They were weightless. And a startled Phoenix crew member met them.

“If you’ve got com,” Bren said, “advise Captain Graham we’re coming, with injured crew.”

“Yes, sir,” the crewwoman said.

The lighted conveyor ran past them. Bren grabbed it one-handed, felt it take the mass of Banichi and Jago behind him and then, presumably, Barnhart and one crewman; and Ilisidi’s men, with two of Sabin’s, as best they could.

There was little stress on the arm, enough to prove they were moving, while all he could see was the glowing ribbon winding through a vast, numbing-cold dark: an illusion of infinity, that ribbon interrupted by silhouettes. In the far distance, dots that were families interrupted the glow, refugees, holding together, half-frozen and caught in, nothing, in nowhere—thank God, Bren thought, that the lighted ribbon did move, and moved with a fair dispatch, because if ever some one of the refugees let go and became lost off the ribbon, they might lodge up in the unseen recesses, helpless, to freeze before rescue could find them. The conveyor was designed for the able-bodied.

Clips, he thought. They ought to find clips somewhere.

The ribbon had an end. Or a returning-point, where it doubled back. And there were a few clips floating past, attached. Someone was using his imagination.

There were crewmen at that end-point. Safety. And nothing would hurry this line. Bren watched the crew help one after another clumps of people into the tube, and onto the next conveyor line.

Their turn came. Crew had seen them coming.

“We’ve got wounded,” Bren said. “For two-deck.” And the masked, parka-clad crewmen delayed them not at all, only sent them up the umbilical co

Faster trip, this.

“Mr. Cameron, sir.” Welcome voice, behind that mask: Kaplan met them on two-deck; Kaplan and Polano; and medics, instantly taking charge of the wounded.

“Sabin’s alive. At the fuel station,” Bren said. Kaplan deserved that information. “Need to see the captain.”

“Go right on up, sir.” Kaplan held the lift door for him and his, and let the door shut once they were inside.

Light. Glorious, brilliant light, and warmth. Air that didn’t feel like the same substance as that burning chill outside. A solid feel to the deck under his feet. It was like emerging from near drowning. Everything was sharp-edged. Every familiar sight was new.

And the handheld worked, if numb fingers could get it out of his pocket and hold on to it. It gave him a series of images his watering eyes couldn’t quite bring into focus; one dark. One was an animation. They were talking to the alien ship. One—one was a suited figure in a lot of dark, beside machinery. Gin. He didn’t know how to bring in the audio, and lost the image.

“Damn!” he said, then, conscious of his companions, and then of the fact their personal electronics were in contact again, and that Asicho, belowdecks, was likewise receiving: “Asa-ji, we are all well.” And to his immediate company. “My fingers are numb. But they seem to be talking to the foreign ship and Gin-aiji seems still at work outside. Perhaps Jase-aiji wishes now to move the ship closer to take on fuel, but with people coming aboard in bitter cold, impossible to hold them off.”

“This ship ca

“One believes,” he began to say, but the lift reached its destination and let them out on the bridge: him, his bodyguard, Barnhart, and the dowager’s men, all of them, he suddenly realized, in the pristine cleanliness of the bridge, bloody and sweaty and reeking of fumes as their clothes thawed, their whole party laden down with all sorts of battle-gear.

Jase met them the moment they cleared the short partition, met him and seized him by the shoulder. “Bren. What’s the story over there?”

“Sabin’s at fueling ops, the archive’s blown, Central’s out, and we left word on several levels to evacuate—which people seem to be doing, fast as they can. What’s this side?”

“We’re ru

“It’s not secure over there. Braddock’s still alive. Jenrette isn’t. But Sabin’s got the section doors locked on the fuel center. There were several tries at us while we were taking it.”

“Station’s getting shorter-handed by the hour, and we can talk to them .” Jase gave a shake at his shoulders. “We can talk to station. You can talk to the other side of this situation. Get us some time and everything’s a lot better.”

“Understood,” Bren said. He was shivering from recent bone-chill, at that floating-feeling stage of exhaustion, but Jase was right, no question. “I’ll handle it. Key.” He remembered it, and took it from his pocket and gave it back.

“One is grateful, nadiin-ji: one is extremely grateful.” With a small bow to the atevi in general. “Barnhart.” A nod, a warm handshake. “Get a rest.”

“Rest isn’t likely,” Barnhart said. “But I’ll get on it.”

“Nadiin,” Bren said, gathering his company, and went straight back to the lift. Bath, he was thinking, warm bath, warm up the surface, get the brain working, maybe one of Bindanda’s tea cakes and a hot drink: he had to shift gears, get his thoughts out of fight and on to the delicate business of communication. Fast.

He shoved the handheld and its problems into his pocket on the way to the lift—got in, and started to give a surreptitious sniff at his hand, wondering whether fumes had adhered to his skin as well as his clothes and whether he could forego the bath; and saw it spattered with dried blood.

Bath, he thought. There were certain things one didn’t want to explain. God knew what evidence his face had. Barnhart’s coat was bloody. Atevi uniforms were no better off, and Banichi—

The blood seeping down Banichi’s fingers wasn’t old, and Banichi hadn’t been helping the wounded.

“Banichi. How bad? How long?”

“Minor,” Banichi said. “Minor, Bren-ji. Not long.”

“Jago-ji, be sure of it.”

“Yes,” Jago said, and sternly, when Banichi only looked as if he might object, “ yes , nadi.”