Beside Bel stood another soldier, the top of his helmet—my helmet—not quite level with the top of Bel’s shoulder. He had half-forgotten how startling Mark was. Do I really look like that?
“You—” Miles’s voice cracked, and he found he had to stop and swallow. “Later, you and I are going to have a long talk. There’s a lot you don’t seem to understand.”
Mark’s chin came up, defiantly. Surely my face is not that round. It must be an illusion, from the hood. “What about these kids?” said Mark. “These clones.”
“What about them?” A couple of young men in brown silk tunics and shorts appeared to be actually helping the Dendarii defenders, scared and excited rather than surly. Another group, boys and girls mixed, sat in a plain-scared bunch on the floor under the watchful eye of a stunner-armed trooper. Crap, they really are just kids.
“We’ve—you’ve got to take them along. Or I’m not going.” Mark’s teeth were set, but Miles saw him swallow.
“Don’t tempt me,” snarled Miles. “Of course we’re taking them along, how the hell else would we get out of here alive?”
Mark’s face lit, torn between hope and hatred. “And then what?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Oh,” Miles caroled sarcastically, “we’re just going to waltz right over to Bharaputra Station and drop them off, and thank Vasa Luigi kindly for the loan. Idiot! What d’you think? We load up and run like hell. The only place to put them would be out the airlock, and I guarantee you’d go first!”
Mark flinched, but took a deep breath and nodded. “All right, then.”
“It is not. All. Right,” Miles bit out. “It is merely . . . merely . . .” He could not come up with a word to describe what it merely was, aside from the most screwed-up mess he’d ever encountered. “If you were going to try and pull a stupid stunt like this, you might at least have consulted the expert in the family!”
“You? Come to you for help? D’you think I’m crazy?” demanded Mark furiously.
“Yes—” They were interrupted by a staring blond clone boy, who’d walked up to them open-mouthed.
“You really are clones,” he said in wonderment.
“No, we’re twins born six years apart,” snapped Miles. “Yes, we’re just as much clones as you are, that’s right, go back and sit down and obey orders, dammit.”
The boy retreated hastily, whispering, “It’s true!”
“Dammit,” Mark howled under his breath, if that squeezed sotto voce could be so described, “how come they believe you and not me? It’s not fair!”
Quinn’s voice, through his helmet, derailed the family reunion. “If you and Don Quixote Junior are done greeting each other, Medic Norwood has Phillipi prepped and loaded, and the wounded ready to transport.”
“Form up, let’s get the first batch out the door, then,” he responded. He called up Blue Squad’s sergeant. “Framingham, take the first convoy. You ready to roll?”
“Ready. Sergeant Taura has marshaled them for me.”
“Go. And don’t look back.”
Half-a-dozen Dendarii, about three times that many bewildered and exhausted clones, and the two wounded troopers on float pallets assembled in the foyer and filed out the ruined doors.
*** (A lot of action goes here as Miles frantically tries to salvage the operation.)
Miles turned and dashed down the corridor and through some big double doors, beckoned anxiously onward by Thorne, who waited to help cover him.
“I’ll take rear guard,” Thorne volunteered.
Was Thorne entertaining thoughts of dying heroically, thus avoiding the inevitable court-martial? For a moment, Miles entertained thoughts of letting it do so. It would be the Vorish thing to do. The Old Vor could be a bunch of assholes, at times. “You get those clones to the shuttle,” Miles snapped in turn. “Finish the job you took on. If I’m paying this much, I want to get what I’m paying for.”
Thorne’s teeth bared, but it nodded. They both galloped after the squad.
The double doors opened onto an enormous concrete-floored room, which obviously nearly filled the big building. Red- and green-painted catwalks ran around a girdered ceiling high above, festooned with looping cables of mysterious function. A few harsh pale lights shone down, casting multiple shadows. He blinked in the gloom and almost lowered his infrared visor. It appeared to be an assembly area for large projects of some kind, though at the moment there seemed to be nothing in progress. Quinn and Mark hesitated, waiting for them to catch up despite Miles’s urgent gesture for them to hurry on. “What are you stopping for?” he barked in furious fear. He skidded to a halt beside them.
“Look out!” someone yelled. Quinn spun, raising her plasma arc, seeking aim. Mark’s mouth opened, the ‘o’ foolishly echoing the circle of his gray hood around his face.
Miles saw the Bharaputran because they were looking square at each other, in that frozen moment. A team of brown-clad Bharaputran snipers, probably come up through the tunnels. They were scrambling along the girders, barely more prepared than the Dendarii they pursued. The Bharaputran had a hand-sized projectile weapon launcher of some kind pointed straight at him, its muzzle bright with flare.
Miles could not, of course, see the projectile, not even as it entered his chest. Only his chest, bursting outward like a flower, and a sound not heard but only felt, a hammer-blow launching him backward. Dark flowers bloomed too in his eyes, covering everyone.
He was astonished, not by how much he thought, for there was no time for thought, but by how much he felt, in the time it took for his last heartburst of blood to finish flowing through his brain. The chamber careening around him . . . pain beyond measure . . . rage, and outrage . . . and a vast regret, infinitesimal in duration, infinite in depth. Wait, I haven’t—
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Death at the wrong end of a needler. (N, MD)
“You—” Miles’s voice cracked, and he found he had to stop and swallow. “Later, you and I are going to have a long talk. There’s a lot you don’t seem to understand.”
Mark’s chin came up, defiantly. Surely my face is not that round. It must be an illusion, from the hood. “What about these kids?” said Mark. “These clones.”
“What about them?” A couple of young men in brown silk tunics and shorts appeared to be actually helping the Dendarii defenders, scared and excited rather than surly. Another group, boys and girls mixed, sat in a plain-scared bunch on the floor under the watchful eye of a stunner-armed trooper. Crap, they really are just kids.
“We’ve—you’ve got to take them along. Or I’m not going.” Mark’s teeth were set, but Miles saw him swallow.
“Don’t tempt me,” snarled Miles. “Of course we’re taking them along, how the hell else would we get out of here alive?”
Mark’s face lit, torn between hope and hatred. “And then what?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Oh,” Miles caroled sarcastically, “we’re just going to waltz right over to Bharaputra Station and drop them off, and thank Vasa Luigi kindly for the loan. Idiot! What d’you think? We load up and run like hell. The only place to put them would be out the airlock, and I guarantee you’d go first!”
Mark flinched, but took a deep breath and nodded. “All right, then.”
“It is not. All. Right,” Miles bit out. “It is merely . . . merely . . .” He could not come up with a word to describe what it merely was, aside from the most screwed-up mess he’d ever encountered. “If you were going to try and pull a stupid stunt like this, you might at least have consulted the expert in the family!”
“You? Come to you for help? D’you think I’m crazy?” demanded Mark furiously.
“Yes—” They were interrupted by a staring blond clone boy, who’d walked up to them open-mouthed.
“You really are clones,” he said in wonderment.
“No, we’re twins born six years apart,” snapped Miles. “Yes, we’re just as much clones as you are, that’s right, go back and sit down and obey orders, dammit.”
The boy retreated hastily, whispering, “It’s true!”
“Dammit,” Mark howled under his breath, if that squeezed sotto voce could be so described, “how come they believe you and not me? It’s not fair!”
Quinn’s voice, through his helmet, derailed the family reunion. “If you and Don Quixote Junior are done greeting each other, Medic Norwood has Phillipi prepped and loaded, and the wounded ready to transport.”
“Form up, let’s get the first batch out the door, then,” he responded. He called up Blue Squad’s sergeant. “Framingham, take the first convoy. You ready to roll?”
“Ready. Sergeant Taura has marshaled them for me.”
“Go. And don’t look back.”
Half-a-dozen Dendarii, about three times that many bewildered and exhausted clones, and the two wounded troopers on float pallets assembled in the foyer and filed out the ruined doors.
***
(A lot of action goes here as Miles frantically tries to salvage the operation.)
Miles turned and dashed down the corridor and through some big double doors, beckoned anxiously onward by Thorne, who waited to help cover him.
“I’ll take rear guard,” Thorne volunteered.
Was Thorne entertaining thoughts of dying heroically, thus avoiding the inevitable court-martial? For a moment, Miles entertained thoughts of letting it do so. It would be the Vorish thing to do. The Old Vor could be a bunch of assholes, at times. “You get those clones to the shuttle,” Miles snapped in turn. “Finish the job you took on. If I’m paying this much, I want to get what I’m paying for.”
Thorne’s teeth bared, but it nodded. They both galloped after the squad.
The double doors opened onto an enormous concrete-floored room, which obviously nearly filled the big building. Red- and green-painted catwalks ran around a girdered ceiling high above, festooned with looping cables of mysterious function. A few harsh pale lights shone down, casting multiple shadows. He blinked in the gloom and almost lowered his infrared visor. It appeared to be an assembly area for large projects of some kind, though at the moment there seemed to be nothing in progress. Quinn and Mark hesitated, waiting for them to catch up despite Miles’s urgent gesture for them to hurry on. “What are you stopping for?” he barked in furious fear. He skidded to a halt beside them.
“Look out!” someone yelled. Quinn spun, raising her plasma arc, seeking aim. Mark’s mouth opened, the ‘o’ foolishly echoing the circle of his gray hood around his face.
Miles saw the Bharaputran because they were looking square at each other, in that frozen moment. A team of brown-clad Bharaputran snipers, probably come up through the tunnels. They were scrambling along the girders, barely more prepared than the Dendarii they pursued. The Bharaputran had a hand-sized projectile weapon launcher of some kind pointed straight at him, its muzzle bright with flare.
Miles could not, of course, see the projectile, not even as it entered his chest. Only his chest, bursting outward like a flower, and a sound not heard but only felt, a hammer-blow launching him backward. Dark flowers bloomed too in his eyes, covering everyone.
He was astonished, not by how much he thought, for there was no time for thought, but by how much he felt, in the time it took for his last heartburst of blood to finish flowing through his brain. The chamber careening around him . . . pain beyond measure . . . rage, and outrage . . . and a vast regret, infinitesimal in duration, infinite in depth. Wait, I haven’t—