“Senator,” she said softly, releasing her command chair’s harness and sliding into a clean uniform, “I don’t think I ever told you, but you’re one hell of a fine Bolo. And come hell or high water, I’ll make sure you get the chance to stay that way. I’ll get a shipload of psychotronic engineers out here to fix you, even if I have to light fires under every brass butt from Sector HQ to Central Command. You’ve earned it. So don’t you go getting any damnfool notions about joining any mothballs, you hear me?”
“Yes, Comma—” The Bolo paused. Said instead, “Yes, Alessandra.”
She smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
Very softly, her Bolo said, “So do I, Alessandra. Thank you.”
No other words were necessary.
Chapter Twenty-six
After fifteen hours of brutal work by Eisenbrucke Station’s biochemistry team, John Weyman watched Dr. Collingwood load a specially-rigged aerosol canister which would release her newly created compound into Icewing Clan’s nest. “I’ve suspended it in a colorless, odorless gas,” she explained, “since the clan will need to breathe it for an hour without knowing it.”
They had tested the analog as best they could, with tissue taken from Chilaili and airlifted out to Rustenberg, for exposure to the neurotoxin. And while the tests went perfectly, tissue was not a whole organism and they were gambling with the fate of a sentient species.
Unfortunately, neither John nor anybody else could see any other way to proceed.
John made certain Chilaili knew how to operate the device, then packed it into the Navy shuttle that had flown back from Rustenberg, along with a smoke grenade and a can of spray sealant, the kind used to repair micro-meteor hull breaches in Navy ships, couriered down from the Darknight.
The rest of Eisenbrucke’s personnel had already been airlifted out, aboard civilian aircars from Seta Point, flying low to the ground under the protection of Rapier’s long-range guns. The last civilian transport was ready to ferry Dr. Collingwood, her assistant, and Bessany out to Seta Point, but Bessany—with characteristic stubbornness—refused to board. “No,” she insisted. “I’m going with you and Chilaili.”
“If something goes wrong—”
“You’ll need a xenology expert. Or Chilaili will need a friend. Or both.”
He gave up trying and simply helped her climb into Lieutenant Carter’s shuttle.
Their transport was well armed with antimissile systems, freeing Rapier for the part he would play in the upcoming charade. The Bolo had already headed out, needing a good head start, since he couldn’t travel as fast through broken terrain as an airborne craft could fly across it. Rapier wouldn’t need to get as close as they would, but John wanted him relatively near, in case things went seriously sour. John gave Lieutenant Carter one of Elin Olsson’s geological survey maps, on which he’d indicated the point where Icewing’s war party had first been spotted, their heat signatures pulsing brightly against the snow.
“This,” he tapped the marked location, “has to be pretty much dead on target for their winter nest. I want you to bring us in fairly close, then drop us here.” He tapped a second marked location. “We’ll hike the rest of the way, so the shuttle doesn’t attract attention.”
Carter flashed a brief smile. “Piece of cake. Lots simpler than airlifting out nearly a thousand people in seven minutes. All right, let’s rock and roll.”
John vowed to make sure Lieutenant Carter received a whopping commendation.
He pulled himself into the cockpit, settling in the copilot’s seat, while Carter switched on the engines and ran swiftly through her preflight check. John glanced into the back, where Bessany sat next to Chilaili. The Tersae was scrunched into an acceleration couch far too small for her frame. The pack she’d brought with her through the blizzard sat at her feet.
“We’re going to lift off in a couple of minutes, Chilaili. If you get airsick—queasy enough to throw up—there’s a special sack in a pocket next to your right hand.”
“Thank you, John Weyman,” she said, her voice a deep rumble from being bent double to fit into the couch. She turned her gaze to the window, staring out across the ruins of the research station. Given her grip on the couch’s armrests, she was terrified and trying not to show it.
He was suddenly very glad Bessany had insisted on coming along.
Carter said, “All right, everybody, hang onto your lunch. We’re set to go.”
She throttled up the engines and lifted out of the little valley. John caught a glimpse of the “bridge” which had given the doomed station its name, a glittering span of solid ice, beautiful, treacherous, deadly. Like everything else about Thule. Then the shuttle banked, they picked up speed, and Carter shot her craft out across the forest at treetop level.
After a moment, Chilaili asked in a strained voice, “May I know why we fly in the wrong direction to reach my nest?”
“I’d rather not end up in a dogfight with any missiles,” Carter said. “I want to set you down fast and get out again without being spotted. The last thing we want is to alert your nest. And we don’t dare risk blowing you and that analog up in the air, if your war party sees us and decides to shoot.”
“Ah . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The pilot glanced at John, eyes glinting as if to say, “This’ll be one to tell my grandkids,” but said nothing, concentrating on flying as close to the treetops as possible. A journey that had taken Chilaili a full, bruising day, struggling through the blizzard, took the Navy shuttle fifteen minutes, even allowing for the long loop to come in from the opposite direction. Carter spotted the clearing marked on the map and settled her craft gently between tall stands of coniferlike trees that whipped and swayed in the backblast.
“Good luck, Colonel!” Carter called as John popped the hatch and slithered down to the ground, joined a moment later by Chilaili and Bessany. They waded through deep snowdrifts to reach the cover of the trees, so Carter would have clear space for takeoff. I ought to have my head examined, John thought with a sudden jerk of his pulse as the shuttle lifted off and vanished over the trees. There’s a whole lot of lonesome out here. He hadn’t felt this vulnerable in years, having grown accustomed to riding into battle with fourteen thousand tons of duralloy war hull between himself and fast, messy death.
Bessany’s expression as she glanced into his eyes told him she knew exactly how he felt.
“Come,” Chilaili said quietly. “My nest lies this way.”
They followed wordlessly as Chilaili moved rapidly through the trees, staying well inside the cover of forest where the drifts weren’t as deep. Seeing Chilaili in her native environment was vastly different from seeing her at the research station or scrunched into a Navy shuttle. Her movements were freer and easier, her stride longer, her gaze more alert as she swung her head gently from side to side, gauging distances and guiding them unerringly into the easiest paths.
For a full, grueling hour, they plowed through snowdrifts, navigated tangled underbrush, and cut around steep-walled gorges where frozen waterfalls glittered with all the raw beauty of wild water solidified into natural sculpture. Their painfully slow progress sent John’s respect soaring, realizing just what it meant that Chilaili had struggled through this same deadly landscape in a howling blizzard.
When Chilaili noticed their flagging pace, she adjusted her longer stride, for which John was intensely grateful. He was in good athletic shape—the Brigade required it—but he wasn’t anywhere near the equal of an eight-foot-tall, winter-hardened Tersae huntress, adapted for this climate and accustomed to its rigors. Bessany showed definite signs of strain, despite three months of heavy fieldwork. Adding to their discomfort, the temperature was dropping sharply, now they were on the back side of the storm system.
Breathing the bitterly cold air was like sucking down knifeblades with each breath. When the gauge on his survival gear registered five degrees below zero, John pulled full-face protective masks from his pack and handed one to Bessany. She flashed him a game smile and pulled it on under the hood of her parka. John’s mask rubbed his chilled skin painfully at first, but as his face warmed up beneath the protective fabric, some of the misery abated with the warmth. He steadfastly refused to think about Rapier’s toasty warm command compartment.
The character of the land changed as they neared Chilaili’s winter nest. The deep basalt flows and the weathered gorges cutting through them, so prevalent in the region immediately surrounding Eisenbrucke Station, gave way to a gentler topography of limestone outcroppings, sinkholes, and ravines worn through the softer rock by running water. They crossed frozen streams, treading carefully on the ice where sharp, broken branches and water-rounded boulders jutted up through the frozen surface. Chilaili had to help them scramble up steep, snow-covered stream banks more than once, careful not to dig her claws into their wrists.