Dion considered
it unlikely that anyone on either side would think of posting a guard
at the entrance to a freight elevator, but he waited warily to make
sure.
He couldn't see
anyone, but that wasn't saying much. He couldn't see anything very
well. Smoke, rising from the deck below, burned his eyes, making them
water. The noise level was appalling—explosions, rocket bursts,
screams. . . .
Dion darted out
of the elevator, heard the doors grind shut behind him. He was
standing on a platform made of solid steel that extended out several
meters in front of him, ending in a railing. A crisscrossing network
of catwalks branched out from the platform, hurtling into a
smoke-filled darkness lit by occasional flaring bursts. He could
barely see the hulking shapes of the gigantic machinery used to raise
and lower the spaceplanes into position.
Back on Phoenix,
Dion had watched the service crews walk the narrow catwalks, and
marveled at their agility, envied their jaunty confidence as they
performed feats of acrobatic skill thirty meters or more above his
head. Just looking at them gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of
his stomach. He never imagined he'd be joining them.
The young man
removed the bloodsword from his hand, winced slightly as the needles
pulled out of his flesh, leaving spots of blood behind. He wiped his
palm on his flight suit and edged his way forward, peering hesitantly
over the railing. He needn't have worried about the drop making him
giddy or someone down below spotting him. He couldn't see a thing
except smoke and flame.
Pain shot up his
arm. Dion looked at his hand, saw it clenched around the metal
railing, the fingers white with the strain. He wondered if he was
going to have to pry himself loose. He thought of Tusk, somewhere
down there.
"Anything's
better than being stuck up here alone!' Dion told himself. He
released his hold on the railing and crept onto the catwalk, crawling
forward on his hands and knees.
He'd been
pounding himself on the back over his ingenuity in finding this means
of sneaking into the battle zone. But now. with smoke choking him,
groping blindly along a catwalk that was maybe a meter wide, with
nothing beneath him but a long fall to an extremely hard deck, he
wondered if he'd been so smart. His eyes were streaming, the smoke
burned his lungs.
He coughed,
blinked back tears, and almost fell from his perch. This wasn't
working.
"Before
long, I'm going to get too light-headed to continue. I have to get
off of here. "
Unable to see
where he was going, he bumped headlong into a support beam and
clutched at it thankfully. His hands closed over what felt like
ladder rungs, leading up and down. He swung himself down. His feet
came into fumbling contact with the ladder, and he began his slow
descent.
Halfway there,
it occurred to him that he was an ideal target. All it would take was
one marine to look in his direction—
"No,"
he said suddenly, glancing at his outfit. "One of the
mercenaries. Fuck it! I'm dressed in a goddam regulation Space Corps
flight suit, complete with insignia. Chances are I'm going to be shot
by my own friends! I could take it off," he added with a surge
of hope that immediately died. He was wearing regulation body armor
underneath.
Cursing himself
for not having thought of this sooner, Dion slipped, lost his
footing, and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. He landed
heavily on the deck below.
Jolted by his
fall, he huddled near the protective beam, peered through the
smoke-filled shadows, and tried to figure out where he was and in
what direction to move. No direction appeared particularly pleasant
or healthful. The zip/flash of lasguns sizzled past, crisscrossing
all around him. He couldn't tell who was firing at whom.
"lt’d
be just great if I went through all this and ended up walking right
smack into Sagan's forces!"
But if he stayed
here much longer, he'd put down roots. A dark, hulking shape loomed
near him. Leaving the
it unlikely that anyone on either side would think of posting a guard
at the entrance to a freight elevator, but he waited warily to make
sure.
He couldn't see
anyone, but that wasn't saying much. He couldn't see anything very
well. Smoke, rising from the deck below, burned his eyes, making them
water. The noise level was appalling—explosions, rocket bursts,
screams. . . .
Dion darted out
of the elevator, heard the doors grind shut behind him. He was
standing on a platform made of solid steel that extended out several
meters in front of him, ending in a railing. A crisscrossing network
of catwalks branched out from the platform, hurtling into a
smoke-filled darkness lit by occasional flaring bursts. He could
barely see the hulking shapes of the gigantic machinery used to raise
and lower the spaceplanes into position.
Back on Phoenix,
Dion had watched the service crews walk the narrow catwalks, and
marveled at their agility, envied their jaunty confidence as they
performed feats of acrobatic skill thirty meters or more above his
head. Just looking at them gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of
his stomach. He never imagined he'd be joining them.
The young man
removed the bloodsword from his hand, winced slightly as the needles
pulled out of his flesh, leaving spots of blood behind. He wiped his
palm on his flight suit and edged his way forward, peering hesitantly
over the railing. He needn't have worried about the drop making him
giddy or someone down below spotting him. He couldn't see a thing
except smoke and flame.
Pain shot up his
arm. Dion looked at his hand, saw it clenched around the metal
railing, the fingers white with the strain. He wondered if he was
going to have to pry himself loose. He thought of Tusk, somewhere
down there.
"Anything's
better than being stuck up here alone!' Dion told himself. He
released his hold on the railing and crept onto the catwalk, crawling
forward on his hands and knees.
He'd been
pounding himself on the back over his ingenuity in finding this means
of sneaking into the battle zone. But now. with smoke choking him,
groping blindly along a catwalk that was maybe a meter wide, with
nothing beneath him but a long fall to an extremely hard deck, he
wondered if he'd been so smart. His eyes were streaming, the smoke
burned his lungs.
He coughed,
blinked back tears, and almost fell from his perch. This wasn't
working.
"Before
long, I'm going to get too light-headed to continue. I have to get
off of here. "
Unable to see
where he was going, he bumped headlong into a support beam and
clutched at it thankfully. His hands closed over what felt like
ladder rungs, leading up and down. He swung himself down. His feet
came into fumbling contact with the ladder, and he began his slow
descent.
Halfway there,
it occurred to him that he was an ideal target. All it would take was
one marine to look in his direction—
"No,"
he said suddenly, glancing at his outfit. "One of the
mercenaries. Fuck it! I'm dressed in a goddam regulation Space Corps
flight suit, complete with insignia. Chances are I'm going to be shot
by my own friends! I could take it off," he added with a surge
of hope that immediately died. He was wearing regulation body armor
underneath.
Cursing himself
for not having thought of this sooner, Dion slipped, lost his
footing, and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. He landed
heavily on the deck below.
Jolted by his
fall, he huddled near the protective beam, peered through the
smoke-filled shadows, and tried to figure out where he was and in
what direction to move. No direction appeared particularly pleasant
or healthful. The zip/flash of lasguns sizzled past, crisscrossing
all around him. He couldn't tell who was firing at whom.
"lt’d
be just great if I went through all this and ended up walking right
smack into Sagan's forces!"
But if he stayed
here much longer, he'd put down roots. A dark, hulking shape loomed
near him. Leaving the
Similar Books
