Everything else that had been here last night, including Stuart Gibb, was gone.
22. EMISSARIES FROM THE DEAD
The mood at the hangar defined grim. The indentures of Hammocktown wandered, directionless, between the sleepcubes set up for them, speaking in hushed voices, weeping, or staring at each other with eyes that could have belonged to any decimated army. With all bravado failed in the aftermath of Gibb’s apparent death, the stench of failure hung over the place like a cloud. Everybody knew that their mission had failed and that the only issue still remaining to them was just how soon they’d be allowed to leave: if they were not prisoners of war or, worse, captives waiting for their own executions.
Lastogne, who remained in charge by default, had taken pity on our condition and allowed us to stop for first-aid and a change of clothes before debriefing. I could have used a quick sonic, but I was so soiled from my ordeal on the Uppergrowth that I locked myself inside the transport and scoured myself with a luxurious hot-water shower. I didn’t restrict myself to the five-minute limit, either. I dialed both the temperature and the water pressure all the way into the red zone and stood with my face in the direct path of the assault, my eyes closed and my arms hanging limp at my sides.
By the time I emerged from the transport, wearing a fresh black uniform, I didn’t need all that much sensitivity to feel the fresh hostility directed against me on all sides. Before, I’d just been a severe, hard-bitten suit from New London: maybe a little cold, maybe a little crazy, but at the very minimum a professional, and a voice of authority who had to be respected. Now I was an irresponsible maverick with a scandalous past whose stunts might have gotten Stuart Gibb killed. I couldn’t take a step without feeling eye-daggers sinking into my back.
Only one person, Oskar Levine, asked if I was all right.
I nodded, astonished him with a hug, then reported to Peyrin Lastogne in the sleepcube where he’d scheduled the debriefing.
The Porrinyards were already there, bracketing Lastogne on both sides, their expressions neutral, their eyes warning me to tread carefully. Oscin wore a plastiskin bandage on his forehead. Skye had treated her right hand with a gloss of burn gel. She hadn’t done anything for her facial wounds, either because she considered them too minor to worry about or, more likely, because she hadn’t had the time. But it was Lastogne who looked haggard. He bore the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days, and who no longer believed he’d manage the trick any time soon. “Counselor. You look cleaner, at least.”
“Thank you,” I said, though I recognized it as the furthest thing from a compliment. “Have you been in touch with New London?”
“I’m not all that sure you’re the one entitled to ask questions here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but until relieved by my superiors, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. Have you been in touch with New London?”
His eyes continued to burn like lasers. “I’ve sent a report, but mine won’t cause as much damage as the one the AIsource just shared with me. They’ve declared our entire party persona non grata on this station. They’ve said that no further visitors will be allowed for the foreseeable future, and that any future observers, if permitted, will need to be appointed by one of the other powers, probably the Bursteeni or the Tchi. They’ve further said that we will only be allowed to stay in the hangar until we can be outfitted to leave.”
“Have they given a reason?”
“Yes,” he said. “You.”
My throat tightened. “Me?”
“They say you engaged in hostilities against the Brachiators. Specifically, that you blinded one. Is that true?”
Oh, that. “I was taking action to defend myself.”
“An argument that carries some weight with me. But it would carry more weight if you had been authorized for unsupervised interaction with these indigenes in the first place. We’ve always been very careful to restrict that authorization to people who had been trained for it. You go, without authorization, without training, and without any aptitude at high-altitude survival, and within a few hours alienate them so badly that all of our work building a relationship with them has been busted all to hell.”
“It was already showing cracks, sir.”
“You’re talking about the Warmuth incident. But Warmuth didn’t get us expelled from the Habitat. Warmuth didn’t destroy our entire purpose for being here. Warmuth didn’t drag two of our best people,” he indicated the Porrinyards, who refrained from providing one of their frequent reminders that they only counted as one person, “into such a severe infraction of protocol that they’ll be working off the penalties for the rest of their lives.”
I remained calm. “I agree, sir. But that’s not all Warmuth didn’t do.”
“Really?”
“She also didn’t survive.”
Lastogne’s cheeks twitched. “Necessity will take you only so far, Counselor. Even in the Corps.”
“On the contrary,” I said, with unwavering confidence, “I think it’ll take me just far enough.”
He turned toward the Porrinyards, appealing for answers, but finding nothing except an equanimity that matched my own.
For the first time, it seemed to occur to him that they were not frightened at all: not of him, not of disciplinary action from the Dip Corps, and not of consequences. They were serene, almost happy. He asked them, not me, “What?”
I started to tell him, choked on the first few words, cleared my throat, and found my voice still wanting. “I’ve had a very rough night, sir, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever had a meeting on this station when somebody didn’t offer me a buzzpatch or a drink.”
Lastogne could only twitch with the mortification of any professional diplomat reminded that he’d neglected certain formalities. “What would you like?”
“Anything alcoholic. As long as it isn’t that stuff you make from manna juice. I’ve had enough of that particular taste today.”
The Porrinyards nodded. “Though we have found out, sir, that it is a delicacy that improves with presentation. It’s a fine sauce.”
Allowing this to pass without requesting clarification, Lastogne opened one of the crates and returned with a tube of something amber. I thanked him, sucked it dry, blinked away the warmth that suffused my aching limbs, and contemplated the empty before handing it back to him. “Nobody here ever understood the Brachiator beliefs about Life and Death.”
“These things take time, Counselor. It’s an entire alien psychology.”
“Nonsense,” I said, my voice rising. “The Brachiators may be alien in ways we haven’t come close to exploring yet, but their understanding of these matters are as simple as basic arithmetic.”
“That New Ghost, Half-Ghost nonsense—”
“—is not nonsense. It’s completely sensible. Too bad it’s also a viewpoint that Gibb’s people, as good as you are, have always been woefully ill-equipped to understand. I’m perfectly willing to admit you’re good people. You just happen to be the wrong people for this particular job. It’s, all in all, one of the worst staffing errors I’ve ever seen.”
He shook his head in automatic denial. “I can’t wait to hear you defend this one.”
“It was a simple mistake, sir. When staffing an outpost in an environment whose inhabitants cling to the very sky, it only made sense to seek out people with a special affinity for heights: mountain climbers, acrobats, orbital construction workers, and other people used to working at high altitudes every day. People like that could thrive in the conditions here. But they were also the people least likely to grasp what the Brachiators go on about.”
“I don’t—”
I didn’t let him finish. “People like that, like you, have a three-dimensional mindset. They know the gulf between themselves and the surfaces far below them, and are able to perceive the distance as one that can be
