Slowly he looked up. “Define okay.” A hint of a dry smile flickered across his lips. “I’ll survive, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“We’re out of the station’s innernet range. If that really was the source of your trouble, it should be gone now.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. His amber eyes were bloodshot, a disconcerting combination of colors. “For getting me out of there.”
“My pleasure,” she assured him. “You can take off that insect shell if you want.”
It took him a moment to realize she meant his armor. Struggling to his feet with a groan, waving off her attempt to assist him, he fumbled for the buckles that held his breastplate on. But either he was too tired to work them, or the angle was just wrong. “Someone helped me get into this,” he muttered.
“Here.” She reached out to him. “Let me help.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but exhaustion won out. He raised up one arm so that she could duck under it and attack the buckles on that side. Sweat and dirt had slicked the plastic and clogged the hinges, making them hard to open. “Damn,” she muttered. “This isn’t winning any design awards, that’s for sure.” Finally she got them released. The cuirass split open like a clamshell and she helped him wriggle out of it sideways, which caused his T-shirt to bunch up under his arms. With a sigh of relief he pulled it down.
She grinned. She couldn’t help it.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” He followed her gaze to his chest, and then flushed. He’d put the pink shirt on inside-out—probably to hide the insipid design on it—but sweat had rendered the fabric almost transparent, and the outline of frolicking kittens showed through, along with a cheery banner that spelled out HAI KAWAII! backward.
He started to say something . . . then he just leaned back against the wall and started laughing. Exhaustion, embarrassment, and relief all echoed in the sound, and it struck nerves within her. She started to laugh as well, helplessly, a bizarre but effective catharsis.
Finally the fit passed for both of them, and he gathered enough breath to gasp, “My regular wardrobe is much more stylish.”
“Black T-shirts with gaming slogans, no doubt.”
“Nice black T-shirts with gaming slogans.”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “Tully and I kept some spare clothes in the skimmer. I haven’t had a chance to clear his out yet.” Or didn’t have the desire? “He was heavier than you, but about the same height; some of his clothes might fit. You can take anything you want.” She gestured toward the narrow door at the rear of the skimmer. “There’s a cleaning cubicle back there, too. Not exactly luxurious.”
“Just getting clean would be one hell of a luxury,” he assured her.
“You look like you could use a few hours of downtime. Feel free to pull out a bunk. I’ve got some things to take care of up here.”
He pushed himself off the wall, then hesitated. “I don’t know how to thank you . . .”
She waved it off. “You helped me figure out what was going on in there. And to get this one out.” She nodded toward Ivar. “We’re more than even.”
“Still,” he said. “I owe you.”
There was no way to respond to that, so as he started toward the rear she turned her attention to the next job. The lock on the hidden armory closet verified her identity, and the wall panels guarding it slid open. She picked up her breastplate and—
“Holy shit,” she heard.
She turned to find Micah staring at the armory. It was a pretty impressive collection, and an eclectic one. Firearms and charge rods and flamethrowers hung next to gas grenades and knives and crossbows, and even a pair of swords. Everything was in twos—save for a charge pistol and shock rod that were obviously missing mates—and strapped securely to the wall, in no-G fashion. “Holy shit,” he muttered again.
Ru was grinning. “Just a few basic supplies.”
“Is that a Frisian K-1 triple-stage assault rifle?” he asked.
She nodded. “You have a good eye.”
“I thought those were illegal in the outworlds.”
“They are illegal in the outworlds. Your point?”
“I’m . . . I’m just surprised, is all. I thought outriders gathered information. Not . . . whatever you’d need an armory like this for.”
The humor in her eyes diminished a bit. “That’s not a simple story, or a short one. Maybe later.” She touched a control and a deep drawer slid out of the wall; she hefted his cuirass into it, then hers. The blue light of a sterilizer came on as it closed. “Needless to say I’d prefer our guest not know about this collection.”
“Well, yeah. Yeah. That goes without saying.”
She hung up her weapons and shut the closet door. Like the slideaways, it was now virtually invisible. That was an important feature, in case hostiles ever boarded the skimmer.
As she watched him walk toward the rear of the ship, already pulling off the kitten shirt, she realized what she had just called Ivar. Our guest. Hers and Micah’s. Was that just force of habit? Or a reflection of how much she hungered for an ally, a partner? Be wary of trusting him too much, an inner voice warned. You can’t afford to lose perspective just because you want to trust someone.
* * *
The first part of her report to Jericho was easy to write: a simple narration of her experiences, with supporting data appended to it. But the conclusion called for a subjective analysis, and that gave her pause. She deleted five different versions before coming up with one she was willing to send him.
. . . I believe it would be an act of cruelty to leave these people as they are, twitching on the strings of a mysterious puppet master. If Bello’s theory is correct, and the signal that imposed sensory distortion on the locals is being channeled through Shenshido’s innernet, it should be possible to remove the people from this station with minimal risk, provided they are digitally quarantined until their brainware is verified clean of contamination.
But if the attack on Harmony was orchestrated from Shenshido, our puppet master may be able to control his victims across great distances. Until we understand the mechanism of that control, and the limits of his power, refugees should be handled with extreme care.
She rubbed her forehead with weary fingers, trying to massage away the throb of an oncoming headache. Her wellseeker offered to treat it, and after a moment she accepted. Slowly the pain eased, but not the stress behind it. Her next words, she knew, might subject Shenshido’s victims to further suffering. But images from the station were playing out in her mind—fighters armored in cannibalized furniture parts swinging primitive makeshift weapons at one another, surrounded by bodies that had been crushed or slashed or broken—and though her stomach turned at the thought of leaving anyone in that hellhole, they were all part of a much larger game now. And the stakes were too high to take chances.