any further entry.”
I removed the stun device from my collar. It was the same one I’d used on Gibb the other day, but it was calibrated to deliver incapacitating jolts to human beings and might be nothing more than a pinprick to Brachiators. With my bag of essentials still in the skimmer with the Porrinyards, and the item I’d saved for use against the Heckler long since fallen into the clouds, it was all I had. “I suppose you argued the point?”
“We told them we still had four people in there, in immediate need of evacuation.”
The number seemed right until I remembered to count Gibb, still enduring his voluntary exile at Hammocktown. “You have more than four.”
“What?”
The gray-haired Brachiator gave another heave-ho, so mighty that I almost bumped my head on his back. I tapped its spine with the only weapon I had, the stunner, and was not rewarded with spectacular results: a little buzz, a little twitch, a little grunt of annoyance. Any thoughts I’d had of bravely fighting off the entire tribe with nothing more than the stunner quickly vanished.
Lastogne cut in again. “Counselor, repeat what you just said. You have more than four people in there?”
“I’m a little too busy to do your math for you, sir! I have things to do!”
The gray-hair gathered up all his strength and tugged again, drawing me level with the sea of broad, simian faces. His own eyes rolled toward me. In a heartbeat, my last chance to escape would be gone. I’d never win if this became a battle of competing muscle power.
But speed I had over all of them.
I didn’t even need to hurry as I reached out with one hand and used the stunner to deliver what must have been an agonizing jolt to his right eye.
Quick biology lesson: it doesn’t matter what species you belong to. If you have eyes and the capacity to suffer, that place has some of the most sensitive pain receptors in your entire body.
The gray Brachiator shrieked. It didn’t let go of the line at first, but it did remove one of its anchoring grips on the Uppergrowth and grab for me, its claws vibrating with a frenzy that might have seemed convulsive had it originated from a creature capable of faster motion.
I had just enough time to move my hand over its other eye and deliver another jolt.
Blinded twice, too agonized to be capable of conscious thought, the Brachiator released its grip on my line. I jerked downward, passing just under its reach and the reach of the other Brachiators clutching at me. I didn’t fall any farther because there were too many other Brachs holding the cord. With their reaction time, it might take them a few seconds to even realize that something bad had just happened, and seconds more to decide I was one fish best released. That is, if they decided that. My glimpse of Brachiators at war hadn’t exactly painted them as creatures who gave up the first time they were bloodied.
Just above me, Friend to Half-Ghosts roared. “You asked for Life!”
My own cry was no less shrill. “I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want any part of it! And I don’t want any part of you!”
Then I fell.
My safety line, released by all the Brachiators at once, went slack for its entire length, freeing me to plunge again. I wasn’t ready for it this time, and screamed all the way down, crying out when the cord once again drew taut.
Lastogne, who’d been listening to every last gasp and squeal, was by this time shouting my name over and over. I counted four separate repetitions of “Counselor Cort!” Each one a little more hopeless, a little more certain that I’d given up the fight.
I didn’t manage words until the cord used up its elasticity and I was once again spinning at the bottom of the line. “I’m…here, sir. A little mussed, but alive for the time being.”
He expended his relief in a single whuff of air. “What’s happening?”
“I’ve bought myself a few more minutes. No more, I think. The Brachs are pretty upset at me by now. And you?”
“We haven’t heard from the Porrinyards in a while. They’re not answering. I don’t know whether they’re dead or just unable to respond. The AIsource themselves have been less than forthcoming. They say they’ve withdrawn their permission for a human presence inside the Habitat, and will be expecting us to depart the station within forty-eight hours. No word on the disposition of the people still inside. Which we still count as four, by the way. You, Gibb, Oscin, and Skye.”
The damned thing I kept wanting to do, but hadn’t been able to do, gnawed at me once again. I shifted my grip on the line, released one hand so I could blow on the aching and now bleeding palms, and said, “Have you counted heads there?”
“Nobody’s signed out but you four.”
“Forget who’s signed out. You can’t expect a murderer to sign in and out like a normal person taking shore leave. Gather everybody in the hangar for a roll call. That includes you. If you don’t get at least three other parties to vouch for your own presence there, I’m going to assume you’re talking to me from some remote location and presume you are our saboteur. The only acceptable excuse for not giving me what I need in five minutes will be that I’m dead and not available to take it from you.”
His urgency went away a little, replaced by his usual wry humor. “That does remain a possibility, Counselor.”
“I know. But you had better proceed as if it’s not.”
“I’m right on it,” he said.
I felt another tug from up above.
Before I looked, I was sure I knew what it was. It had to be the Brachiators making another attempt to pull me up. I’d have to hold on tight and wait until I was in range again. I didn’t think going for the eyes would work a second time, since even creatures as slow as they were would learn from the first time.
Then I looked, and saw that my situation was significantly worse than that.
The gray-haired Brach had given up on retrieving me and begun attacking the line itself.
If I listened real hard, I could make out the scraping sounds from down here. He was slashing away with all the strength he had.
I couldn’t blame him. After all, I had presented myself as a friend and then made myself his enemy. He wouldn’t consider what I’d done self-defense. He’d see it as betrayal.
You could even give him credit for still trying to give me what I wanted. I’d told him I wanted nothing to do with them. Or with Life.
It would cost him nothing to oblige me.
I’d be safe enough until he realized that the line was impervious to his claws. Then he’d start working out other ways to dislodge me.
My first impulse was to get Lastogne back on the line and beg. But it wouldn’t do any good. Nothing would do any good. Even if the AIsource reopened the Habitat right now, no skimmer available to Lastogne or his people could reach me in time to make a difference. The Porrinyards could be dead already for all I knew, and my last resort, Gibb, was stuck on Hammocktown with no means to mount a rescue mission, assuming he’d even want to.
By all meaningful definitions of the word, I was already dead.
But then, by all local definitions of the word, I’d been dead before.
Hating the necessity, I had to climb.
It was a useless gesture. There was no safer place above me worth climbing to. I’d been there already. I knew all I had to look forward to up there was a bloodier death. But the one trait I’d taken from my experiences on Bocai, and nurtured in all the terrible places I’d been since, was an absolute inability to do nothing. Faced with a choice, I’d always seek higher ground, even when higher ground was worse.
I was halfway back to the Uppergrowth when the first spurt of manna juice hit my forehead, stinging my eyes and forcing me to clear my vision with the back of one hand. The Brachiators were slicing away at the vines anchoring my line. The Porrinyards had used an air cannon to drive it through multiple generations of Uppergrowth, and advised me that the anchor was solid enough to support several times my own weight. But it wouldn’t be if it was physically ripped from its foundations. It wouldn’t be if the Brachiators dedicated themselves to cutting away every single vine between them and the anchoring hook. Chances were, they wouldn’t need to excavate it entirely
