Glory Main (18 page)

His fall took Cranther down with him, and they both crashed into the dirt. Mortas rolled up in a ball, both hands squeezing the calf muscle as if it were merely a bad cramp, fear seizing him again when he felt the blood. Cranther crawled to him on his stomach, his mouth open and sucking in great breaths of air. The scout's hands reached for the wound, stopped, and then signaled him to let go.

Slowly pulling his fingers off, Mortas was assaulted by a shower of thoughts and images that rebounded off of one another. The need for silence, and the way the distant shooting continued, but now there was less of it and it seemed muffled, like it was happening underwater. Gratitude for the little man who was now slowly tearing his trouser leg open, his face close to the wound because of the darkness. Fear that it would be bad. Fear that he wouldn't be able to get up again. Fear that the endorphins had already kicked in and that it would hurt like hell when they wore off.

The sudden, overriding fear that he had completely lost track of Gorman and Trent.

He sat bolt upright, but Cranther stopped him with a palm against his chest and an angry shake of his head. He couldn't leave it at that, though, and so he leaned forward and whispered.

“What happened to Trent and Gorman?”

“Not sure. Got 'em up and out, saw you weren't there, so I sent them running and went back.” He stifled a cough and then gave the leg two quick pats. “You got grazed by something, just a scratch. You hurt anywhere else?”

Mortas looked around, vainly seeking the image of the other two. It was the first time he registered the other pains, the scrape across his forehead and the muscles in his back that cried out for acknowledgment. That was pain too, but the athlete in him knew he could grit his teeth and keep going. Cranther's observation that his leg wound was just a scratch shamed him slightly, and he finally spoke. “No. I'm fine. We have to find the others.”

The scout slowly pushed himself to a kneeling position, and the effort made him cough loudly even though he tried to stop it. He looked around, as Mortas had seen him do a thousand times, checking the area for threats, but even in the darkness something in the gesture was oddly wrong. A ghost of the previous actions, performed simply out of habit. Mortas was reaching for him when Cranther collapsed.

Somehow the stars got brighter just then, turning the ground under the scout gray. It also illuminated the spreading red oval high on his chest and off to the side. Mortas pulled up the filthy shirt and tried not to flinch when he saw the dark, ugly hole and the oozing blood. He slid a hand around, feeling Cranther's back for more blood and an exit wound as he'd been taught. There was nothing there, and the smaller man's eyes fluttered open when he pulled his hand away.

“We gotta get out of here.” He croaked, and this time Mortas knew he was speaking as loud as he could.

“E
asy, easy, almost there.” Mortas slowly dropped to a knee and then lowered Cranther from his shoulder. At first he'd half carried him with the scout's arm stretched across his shoulders, but he'd weakened quickly and finally lapsed into unconsciousness. Only now, as they approached the bank of the river they'd crossed earlier that night, did he show any signs of life.

Mortas eased him into a sitting position against a group of man-­sized rocks, and the scout seemed to fold in on himself, his hand pressed against the wound. The water gurgled somewhere beyond the tall weeds, and Mortas took the Sim canteen from his harness even though he knew it was already empty. He'd washed Cranther's wound and made him drink the rest almost an hour before, and so the decision to head for the stream had been simple. From time to time gunfire had erupted in the black void behind them, and flares had lit up the horizon more than once, but it seemed they'd eluded anyone who might be pursuing survivors.

“Lieutenant.”

The word was weak, and he leaned in close to the ashen face. “Don't talk. Save your strength. I'm gonna get you some water.”

“Wait.”

The eyes that looked up at him from under the skull cap were dull. “You gotta leave me here. Go find the others, and get them off this rock.”

“We'll find the others, but you're coming with me. We'll rest here a bit, get you something to drink, and then push on. It'll be all right.”

Cranther tried to laugh, but the attempt only made him cough again. His earlier spasms had been wet and loud, but these were desiccated and low. “Get to the drome. That crazy major was right about one thing. When that Sim react gets here it'll be total confusion. Steal a Wren and get outta here.”

“I wouldn't know how. You're gonna have to do that.”

“It's easy. You punch in the coordinates.” His voice trailed off, and he took a long, slow breath. “Have Gorman do it.”

“Coordinates? What coordinates?”

“Main. Glory Main. The planet's name is Sere. Not really a planet. Dead rock. Headquarters is inside. Not far from here. The bigs always set up near a Hab in case they have to bug out.” The chuckle turned into a cough. “Generals. Trying so hard to hide, no faith in anything, contingency plan points right to them.”

“That's perfect, then. Won't take long to get there. Have you in a hospital in no time.” The fantastic notion that safety had always been so close was only eclipsed by the utter impossibility of actually getting there, but he had to ask anyway. “You knew that all along?”

“Woulda told you when we got the ship. No one's supposed to know. You hear things, I put it together myself. Gotta know where the safe places are.” The white face turned doubtful for a moment, but then relaxed. “You get a ship and head for Sere. You get close, you go on the distress channel, say you're carrying key intel from a Spartacan, and they'll come out to get you.”

Mortas tried to laugh, humoring him. “Key intel.”

“Tell 'em about the colony, about the mud munitions . . .
don't
tell them we met up with friendlies. All dead back there . . . no good.”

“Hold still. I'll be right back.”

“Wait!” Cranther's free hand grabbed his sleeve. “Told Trent and Gorman to head for that spire I pointed out. Good chance they got away. You find them and get them outta here.”

“I will. We will. Let me get you some water now.”

His leg wound was hurting again as he limped around the rocks toward the sound of the creek. His back ached from the fight in the ravine and the long walk with Cranther on his shoulder, and a soul-­crushing weariness stole upon him while he calculated the scout's chances. The grass brushed against his mud-­caked trousers and small rocks shifted under his boots, but Mortas didn't notice. He was already kneeling by the black, moving surface and filling the canteen before he remembered the serpents, and he was only mildly surprised that the memory held no fear for him.

Tears filled his eyes, and a nearly irresistible urge to just lie down right there stole over him even as he recapped the canteen and stood up. The stream had kept flowing without any sign of its terrible denizens, and he figured the fireworks might have scared them off. He and Cranther would need to cross the stream to reach the spire so many miles away, and he tried to imagine Gorman and Trent doing that at some other fording spot.

He knew he would have to carry Cranther across, and then find a ravine that would get them started toward the rally point. At least the scout had picked a landmark that was easy to see, but now it was in the wrong direction. After linking up with the others, they would have to retrace their steps, cross the stream again, and then approach the drome even as it was filling with reinforcements and enemy ships . . .

He almost didn't realize he'd returned to the spot where he'd left Cranther. He trudged up, his mind spinning with the enormity of the challenge ahead, and found himself completely stumped. Cranther wasn't there.

Mortas looked around to verify he was in the right place, but fresh blood in the dirt near the rocks said that he was. His eyes had just followed the blood trail to a tall, shadowy crack between two large stones when someone spoke behind him.

“Well well well.”

He turned in a flash, prompted by a rocketing fear because he recognized the voice.

Major Shalley stood there, the front of his uniform ripped from neck to navel and an ugly bruise swelling the side of his forehead. The shoulder holster and pistol were gone, but he held a Scorpion rifle in his hands. Light reflected off of it when an enemy flare popped, and Mortas could see the rifle was pointed right at him.

“Good to see you again, Lieutenant.”

W
ide awake now. Amazingly wide awake. Mortas took a drink from the canteen, circling and trying not to look like it.

“Why you pointing that at me, Major?”

“Because I'm going to shoot you.”

“Really?” His opponent turned in place, the gun tracking him. Just a little further and his back would be to the fissure in the rock. “What for?”

“Treason. You brought them to us, didn't you?”

“Think that's how they found you? There were so many trails leading in and out of there, it's like you put up road signs.”

“Wrong. We'd been there for three days and hadn't seen a single Sim scout. And then you four came along, and minutes later they're attacking in force.” Shalley's eyes lost their focus and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Just about everybody back there's dead, but I followed you to make sure you pay for what you've done.”

“Are you even listening to yourself? You stayed in one place too long. Too many troops coming and going from the same spot, they probably found you days ago. I bet that bombardment was just cover so their infantry could get in close.”

“That's a good story. Almost believable.” The major looked around, suspicious. “The enemy teach that to you?”

“What?”

“Lemme guess. They caught you and turned you into some kind of Judas Goat. Taught you to betray your own kind.”

“And how would they do that? They can't talk to us!”

Mortas watched as a hand slid out from the fissure that was now directly behind the man with the gun. The only problem was that the gun was still pointed directly at him. He flicked his eyes around, trying to decide which way to jump.

“Talking's not the only way, boy. But you already know that, right?” The major faltered, and the rifle shifted off of him. “Your headshrinker, that Trent, almost had me letting you go, back there. Those words . . . bored right into my—­”

The hand turned into the rest of Cranther, detaching himself from the stone in the very moment that a string of flares lit up the sky. The blackened knife was in his right hand, and his left was out with the fingers spread. In a single blink he'd moved, one boot landing on Shalley's calf to bring him down within the shorter man's range, the left hand darting out and around, the fingers clamping down on the mouth as the other hand drove the blade straight in.

Mortas was standing there, transfixed, when the gout of blood vomited into the air and both men crashed to the dirt, the major kicking and choking and clutching and the scout rolling up in an immobile ball.

He leapt to Cranther's side, pulling him into his arms and then seeing all the new blood, knowing the damage inside had been ripped even further, that the little man had thrown away what little chance he had in order to save him. Shalley's boots were stamping out a mad tattoo that brought him close as he writhed, and Mortas kicked him away.

“Nononononononono . . .” he crooned, rocking, sure Cranther was already gone when the eyes fluttered open. Though glazed, they saw him.

“Get them out of here, Lieutenant. Sere. Remember Sere. Tell Gorman. ”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so so so sorry. So much I was supposed to do, I should have listened—­”

“Hey.”

He stared into the dimming eyes.

“Yes. I'm right here.”

“Tel.”

“Tell who? Tell them what?”

“My first name. You asked the day we met. It's Tel.”

“I thought it was Corporal.”

“It was.” A smile slowly crept onto the relaxing features. “Not anymore. I'm Tel again. Just Tel.”

He was still smiling when he passed.

T
he horizon was already starting to lighten, but he simply couldn't leave Cranther lying there. He considered putting the body back in the crevice that had sheltered him this last time, knowing that the short man had habitually taken refuge in spaces just like it. Perhaps he'd picked it up on the street as an escapee from the orphanage—­and the mines—­or maybe the Spartacans had taught it to him. Either way it was one of the many habits he'd adopted in the name of survival, and it seemed cruelly wrong to bury him in that fashion, as if throwing him away now that he was no longer useful.

He'd seen larger rocks in the stream earlier, and decided to collect enough of them to build a small cairn. The serpents were out there somewhere, so he dragged Shalley's body many yards along the bank before positioning it, head lolling obscenely, on an outcropping near the water. Returning to Cranther, he waited until the predators began swirling in the black liquid near the fresh meat before wading out and beginning to toss the stones up onto the embankment.

The water churned far off to his left as the loathsome things lunged up on shore, over and over again, but he paid them little attention and kept working. Mortas knew when they pulled the corpse in because the thrashing reached a fever pitch and he was even able to make out the sickening splat as the scaly bodies collided. It would be helpful if they decided to turn on one another the way they had in his earlier crossing, and Mortas felt he detected the sounds of fighting as the roiled waters rippled against his thighs. He'd almost collected enough of the rocks when he sensed the approach of one of the ugly predators, and was only slightly intrigued by the inexplicable sensation, the instinctive knowing, that there was only one of them even though it was behind him.