“You weren’t the fuck-up!” Lieutenant Kiley snarled as he turned. “This one comes with the rank, trooper, so shut your—”
“I’ll go, My Lords,” I said, the squeal of my voice lifting it through the hoarse anger of grown men arguing over a chance to die.
They paused and the third lord, Sparky, thumbed the light up and back by reflex. I pointed to the flue. “That way. But you’ll have to tell me what to do then.”
Lord Curran handed me a disk the size of a thumbnail. He must have taken it from his pocket when he planned to sprint for the tanks himself. “Lay it on the hatch—anywhere on the metal. Inside, t’ the right a’ the main screen—”
“Curran, knot it, will you?” the lieutenant demanded in peevish amazement. “We can’t—”
“I don’t want my ass blown away, Lieutenant,” said the trooper with the light—which pointed toward the officer suddenly, though the pistol in Sparky’s other hand was lifted idly toward the ceiling. “Anyhow, kid’s got a better chance’n you do. Or me.”
Lieutenant Kiley looked from one of his men to the other, then stared at me with eyes that could have melted rock. “The main screen is on the forward wall of the fighting compartment,” he said flatly. “That is—”
“He’s used it, Lieutenant,” said Lord Curran. “He knows where it is.” The little mercenary had drawn his pistol again and was checking the loads for the second time since I fell into the midst of these angry, nervous men.
Kiley looked at his subordinate, then continued to me, “The commo screen is the small one to the immediate right of the main screen, and it has an alphanumeric keypad beneath it. The screen will have a numeral two or a numeral three on it when you enter, depending whether it’s set to feed another tank or to Grant’s helmet.”
He paused, wet his lips. His voice was bare of affect, but in his fear he was unable to sort out the minimum data that my task required. The mercenary officer realized that he was wandering, but that only added to the pressure which already ground him from all sides.
“Push numeral one on the keypad,” Lieutenant Kiley went on, articulating very carefully. “The numeral on the visor should change to one. That’s all you need to do—the transceiver will be cleared for normal operation, and we’ll do the rest from here.” He touched his helmet with the barrel of his powergun, a gesture so controlled that the iridium did not clink on the thermoplastic.
“I’ll need,” I said, looking up at the flue, “a platform—tables or boxes.”
“We’ll lift you,” said Lieutenant Kiley, “and we’ll cover you as best we can. Better take that shirt off now and make the squeeze easier.”
“No, My Lord,” I said, rising against the back wall—out of sight, though within a possible line of fire. I stretched my muscles, wincing as tags of skin broke loose from the fabric to which blood had glued them. “It’s dark-colored, so I’ll need it to get to the tank. I, I’ll use—”
I shuddered and almost fell; as I spoke, I visualized what I had just offered to do—and it terrified me.
“Kid—” said Lord Curran, catching me; though I was all right again, just a brief fit.
“I’ll use my trousers also,” I said. “They’re at the other—”
“Via!” snapped Lord Sparky, pointing with the light which he had dimmed to a yellow glow that was scarcely a beam. “What happened t’ you?”
“I was a servant in the women’s apartments,” I said. “I’ll go now, if you’ll help me. I must hurry.”
Lord Curran and Lieutenant Kiley lifted me. Their hands were moist by contrast with the pebbled finish of their helmets, brushing my bare thighs. I could think only of how my nakedness had just humiliated me before the tank lords.
It was good to think of that, because my body eased itself into the flue without conscious direction and my mind was too full of old anger to freeze me with coming fears.
Going up was initially simpler than worming my way down the tube had been. With the firm fulcrum of Lieutenant Kiley’s shoulders beneath me, my legs levered my ribs and shoulder past the point at which they caught on the concrete.