Weir Annadetcall
The air around him cooled in the dusk. The soil, rich and soft, cupped his knee while its scent
toyed with his nose. Beside him, Phoebe lay too still, control no longer an issue. Back there,
Kanpa sprawled, overwhelmed by zhuhndí also, downed by a bullet.
A bullet! Firearms zhuhndí! How did I get here? When did I choose this future? When did it
choose me? I did want to stay involved, and involved I am. Now quit the recriminations and do
something about it!
He fumbled for Phoebe's pulse, searching closer and closer to her heart as his fingers failed to
sense anything. The beat through her exposed chest, her left breast a slight mound under his
fingers, came subtly and slowly, with ... maybe ... more time passing before each new effort.
Glad she clung to life, Weir checked for wounds and thankfully, found none. Denied, he corrected
himself, I could at least staunch wounds without med-tek. He'd tried going back for it after Dain
had taken off, but the patrolcraft's bays would not open for him; its policyware didn't recognize
him. He'd dashed over here to see if he could help without tools. Now, he knew something was
killing Phoebe, and he could offer her no recourse.
So, Weir turned to help Kanpa. He summoned lessons on wounds penetrating as he pivoted and pushed
himself up into a run.
Twenty meters away, Harlan, his arms sinewy and akimbo below short sleeves, hovered over Kanpa and
kicked him.
Weir bellowed, "Stop that!"
Harlan didn't stop. He lashed out with his foot once more, and Kanpa seemed to stir.
Closer now, Weir tried for a commanding tone, "Back off, Harlan! He's been shot."
Harlan begrudged a glance at Weir, then returned to studying the downed man. He reached out with
his foot again, but only prodded this time.
Kanpa's eyelids ripped open to reveal eyes hard with pain and anger aimed straight at Harlan.
Harlan crouched quickly and grabbed the front of Kanpa's tunic, lifting his chest, blood-soaked and
puny in comparison, prodding out a groan.
Harlan growled, "Get me into her patrolcraft! I'm going after that murdering cagado. He shot up
my craft. Yours hasn't got the legs to catch him." He shook Kanpa. "Get me into hers!"
Weir lunged and grabbed a handful of Harlan's jumpsuit. "Put him down!"
Harlan raised a face also full of anguish and let Kanpa slump. Kanpa's belly came visible, the
hole in it yielding a steady well of blood.
"Do ... 'thing." Kanpa summoned words, but didn't get them all said.
"He'll live," Harlan barked at Weir, then more softly, "How's Jefe?"
Weir staggered back a couple of steps, staring at Harlan, staring at Kanpa, remembering Phoebe back
there. "Bad," he said, "no wounds visible, but dying, I think. Fetch some med-tek and let's help
these people!"
But Harlan didn't answer. Instead, he released Kanpa completely, stood up, and followed his gaze
off past his aircraft to the end of the field. Weir could barely make out some people trotting
towards them. Ten, maybe a dozen, athletic, nearly naked, coming fast through the dusk.
Abruptly, Harlan spun back. "Listen tight. You get into the med-tek bays by saying, 'Gut it,
stuff it, and mount it on the wall.' Got that? The password is 'Gut it, stuff it, and mount it on
the wall.'
"Next, haul lover-boy here over to your aircraft and plug him, face-hugger, chest-hugger over his
belly.
"Next, take a face-hugger to the Chief, then drag her over there.
"Next, pile them into the aircraft any way you can and get them away from here.
"Do you understand?"
Weir returned Harlan's stare. "Yes. Who are they?"
"Gastarbeiterbande — or whatever's taking their place."
"I'll tend to these two, then I'll come help."
"No."
"I'm not helpless—"
Harlan pivoted and sprinted away.
Weir called after him. "You saw what I can do ..." Maybe that's why he's taking them on alone.
He looked down at Kanpa. Better not lose any advantage Harlan is giving me, better not hope
against a bad future, but make a better one myself. He stooped over Kanpa, wadded the man's tunic
over his belly wound, and pushed hard, if only to slow the bleeding some. He then slipped under
one limp arm, caught an armpit with his shoulder, and clutched Kanpa's waist with his other hand.
He dragged Kanpa upright and half-carrying, half-dragging, squeezing on the wound all the way, he
moved toward their aircraft.
Once there, things fell into place. The bays lurched open to the password. The med-tek started
right up when applied to Kanpa and their buttons pushed. Weir spun, jerked open the patrolcraft's
backdoor, but didn't glance inside — it would have to do. He yanked at the pilot's door and
shouted through it, "Prepare for takeoff!" No reaction.
Stunned, Weir flung himself onto the seat. With a quick plea to the Singer, he gave the order
again. Controls flared into life. Automata chimed through its checklist. The engines started
up.
Thankful, Weir leaped out again, grabbed a face-hugger, and raced for Phoebe. On the way, he
checked on Harlan.
Harlan worked the attackers like a sheepdog, squat, brownish, and two-legged, controlling the
shortest route, pushing his foes wider and wider, dooming himself to failure eventually, a failure
that bought seconds for Weir and his wards. Only one chui focused on Harlan. The others fixed
stares, hungry with vile need, on Phoebe, on Kanpa, on the aircraft, on Weir.
A physical target for the first time in his life, Weir ran faster, stretching his legs, pumping his
arms, focusing on his next goal. Competition in business was one thing he knew, but he'd never
worried about walking away from that. Here, now, in this very second, he risked that very thing.
But worry? No, he just worked harder and smarter than he ever had.
Weir slammed to a halt next to Phoebe and jammed the face-hugger at her nose. He stole a second to
watch it shudder into position, then latch onto her face. Counting on the med-tek to do its work
regardless, he hooked her far wrist, yanked until her arm tugged back, then bent and lifted till
she flopped over his shoulder. Contorted with the burden, he staggered through a u-turn and
plunged toward the aircraft, racing to keep from falling, leaning so he'd have to race faster. He
ignored every complaint his body made and pushed it harder.
He slammed Phoebe through the craft's backdoor. He swung on Kanpa's still form, jerked it upright,
rejoiced over the man's groans, and piled him on top of Phoebe. He leaped for the pilot's seat and
shouted, "Take us to the nearest clinic!" To his complete relief, the craft surged forward.
He looked around. Three chuis had broken Harlan's corral, ran swiftly toward them, closing fast.
Rumbling over the rough field, his aircraft accelerated, held their lead, extended it, reached
take-off speed, and lifted into the air. The chuis turned back abruptly, accepting their loss,
retargeting to prevent another.
Below Weir as he rushed toward safety, Harlan fought alone, though somehow he'd flopped the
gangsters' skirmish line into a queue, to be lopped off one at a time. If that tactic held ...
Weir doubted this hope would come true. Gastarbeiterbande didn't stay stupid.
Grateful to Harlan, frightened for him, Weir said as calmly as he could, "Central, get some help
out here."
In a voice at once simple and chilling, the patrolcraft replied, "Primary link to Central Station
lost. Secondary link unavailable. Em-Deh link unavailable. Please give directions to the nearest
clinic."
A curse welled in Weir's mind, but he didn't yield to it. Instead, he lurched around to check on
his wards. Kanpa's face-hugger showed a yellow flag, its triage-level posted as 1, stable.
Phoebe's, however, scolded him with a red background and glaring lifesigns slowly, but steadily
declining.
"Sorry, Harlan," Weir murmured. "You gave me a job to do, and I'm doing it."
Grimly, he demanded maps and settled down to it.
