Bradley began to shake. The muzzle of his gun wobbled through tight arcs. “It stinks . . . ,” he mumbled. “It stinks.”
He was right, of course. The air circulating in the Khalian burrow smelled of Khalians, and that was a stench worse than death to a man like Bradley, who’d seen what the weasels left of his little daughter on Tanjug . . .
Or to a man like Nick Kowacs, whose family had been on Gravely when the weasels landed there.
Kowacs shivered. “Top!” he said harshly. “Snap out of it. You’re not going claustrophobic on me now.”
Bradley took off his helmet and squeezed his bald, scarred scalp with his left hand. His eyes were shut. “It’s not the fuckin’ tunnels,” he said. “Not the tunnels. All these weasels. . . . I just, I wanna—”
Bradley’s fingertips left broad white dimples on his skin when he took his hand away. The weasel envoy watched the sergeant with bright black eyes.
No one spoke again until the cage stopped and the Khalian repeated, “Come with me,” as his paw clashed the door open.
Kowacs couldn’t guess how deep in the earth they were now. There was a sea of fur and tusks and chittering weasel voices outside the elevator. Many of this crowd wore ornaments of brass and leather, but Kowacs didn’t see any weapons.
He stepped out behind the envoy, watching the passageway clear before them and wondering if the Khalians would close in again behind the three humans.
It didn’t matter. They were in this, he and Top and Sie, as far as they could get already. At least the tunnel ceiling was high enough for humans, even the corporal with her burden of death.
The envoy led through an arched doorway. The chamber within was huge even by human standards.
The chamber was full of Khalians.
The smell and sound and visual impact stopped Kowacs in his tracks. One of his men bumped him from behind.
Kowacs closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with the back of his left wrist. That made it worse. When he didn’t see the room filled with weasels, his mind quivered over the memory of his mother, her gnawed corpse thick with the musk of the furry monsters that had—
“No!” Kowacs screamed. The distant walls gave back the echo, cushioned by the soft susurrus of breathing mammals. There was no other sound.
He opened his eyes.
A group of Khalians was coming forward from the crowd. There were twenty or more of them. They wore jewelry and robes patterned with soft, natural colors.
They were very old. Some hobbled, and even those weasels who were able to walk erect had grizzled fur and noticeably worn tusks.
Weasels don’t wear clothing. . . .
There was a great sigh from the assembled company. The aged Khalians gripped their robes and tore them apart in ragged, ritual motions. Some of them were mewling; their facial fur was wet with tears. They fell to the floor and began writhing forward, their throats and bellies bared to the Marines.
The weasel in the center of the groveling line gave a series of broken, high-pitched barks. The voice of Kowacs’ helmet translated, “Khalia surrenders to you, warriors of the Fleet Marines. We are your subjects, your slaves, to use as you wish.”
Come to the Council Chamber, the weasel envoy had said. The High Council of Khalia. They weren’t surrendering this fortress—
“Khalia surrenders—”
They were surrendering the whole Khalian race!
“—to you, warriors of the—”
Bradley’s shotgun crashed. Its airfoil charge was designed to spread widely, even at point-blank range. The load sawed through the chest of the Khalian speaker like so many miniature razors. The weasel’s tusked jaws continued to open and close, but nothing came out except drops of bloody spittle.
The aged Khalian nearest the dead one began to chant, “We are your slaves, warriors of the Fleet Marines. Use us as you will. We—”
Sergeant Bradley’s face was that of a grinning skull. He’d dropped his helmet in the elevator cage. There was no reason left behind his glazing eyes. “You’ll die,” he said in a sing-song voice, “you’ll all—”