grateful.
He shimmied around the I and over to the second M.
Now came the tricky part.
General Poule was peering up at him but wasn't making a sound.
'Anchor yourself, General,' Clavell called. 'I think I can make it down from here, but I might need some help.'
The general disappeared for a moment, and then was back.
'Lashed myself to a crossbeam. Come on down, Major.'
Clavell gulped air and began to descend.
His toes searched for purchase. His gloved fingers clung to cracks that should have sliced them to ribbons.
Then his toes were hanging over space, over the upper lip of the yawning modular cavern.
And there were no more grips. He stretched his toes out, and General Poule still couldn't reach them safely.
Shit.
He began to swing, metronoming from side to side. There was a little slant to the wall here. Just enough to create a little friction. It would slow his descent, and he could get another handhold…
He threw himself sideways, belly and arms flat against the wall, sliding, fingers gripping to find the rain gutter above the modular opening. His fingers were numb and torn, but they still found a grip. His shoulder screamed. But he came to a stop.
Pain shot through his body, and he saw red, as if the strain had burst a capillary in his eye. Pain exploded in his shoulder. His fingers slipped, and panic overwhelmed him, control shattered as he realized he was falling But then 'Evil' Poule's strong hands were on his legs, arms around his waist, under his arms, scooping him up and in to safety. 'I think,' Clavell gasped, 'that I need to rest-'
Then the shock and fear and fatigue hit him all in a rush. The blood drained from his face, and Major Clavell fainted.
28
Friday, July 22, 2059 7:30 A.M.
Crystal and SJ hovered about, caring for Mary-em and encouraging her. 'Got to be careful,' Crystal said soberly. 'After all, you're climbing for two.'
'Hee hee,' Mary-em growled, fingering her belt knife. The very worst part, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind, is that you love it.
SJ soberly triple-checked both lines, Poule's and Clavell's. He studied the faulty epoxy weld while cursing most inventively. Just for safety, he disassembled and reassembled the Spiders, checking every component three times.
Mary-em sat back, doing her best to project a maternal glow. Not a difficult task her tummy was, after all, emitting a soft and lovely radiance that intermittently took the shape of a humanoid infant.
'Hell of a woman,' SJ said soberly, patting her shoulder. 'Glad to have a breeder in the tribe. Now. We've got a sling rigged for you, and it should be fairly comfortable. What does it take to miscarry a godling? Don't know, don't want to find out. You're our walking talisman. Just hope you're up on your Lamaze.'
While Mary-em's reply did indeed have something to do with motherhood, it could hardly have been considered complimentary to SJ.
They had rigged her a sort of basket, anchoring down one of the Spiders to act as a stable braking platform. Mary-em sat in the makeshift seat. At a signal from Poule and Clavell, they began to lower her out of the lip of the modular apartment.
This was humiliating. She had watched Clavell's free climb, and knew it would make him famous. Mary-em's descent would be laughed at unless she played it for all it was worth. She composed herself with an aplomb worthy of a queen. The pulleys creaked, and she began her descent down the weathered face of MIMIC.
Clavell reeled Mary-em in with a coat hanger rigged to the end of a mop handle. Poule had already lifted the weather shield, and as soon as she unhooked herself from the sling she wandered back into the apartment and checked the refrigerator. Empty.
The basket went back up, and Crystal got into it, and the procedure was repeated…
Alphonse Nakagawa was the second-to-last Gamer to take the ride down; SJ worked the brake mechanism.
SJ had no one to work the brake, and that was just fine by him. He rode down on the Spider, whooping all the way, the morning desert spinning below him. It was glorious. Best of all, for the very first time, they were ahead of Bishop and Da Gurls.
Alphonse and the major braced themselves beside the front door, opened it gingerly, and peered out.
They were greeted by a strong marine smell. Faint echoes: sounds of laughter and water play. Clavell, his wrenched shoulder wrapped now, raised an eyebrow at Alphonse. 'Well, Civilian, what do you think?'
'Nommo.'
Clavell called Mary-em up to the front, and they formed another circle around her.
Alphonse knelt by her side. 'Hail,' he said. 'Holy infant, holy mother.' The shape of the infant reappeared.
'I'm going to be sick,' Mary-em said.
The baby covered its little eyes. 'I'm sleeping,' it said petulantly.
'We need your help.'
'I want a song. If you want my help, you be nice to me,' it insisted.
Alphonse pursed his lips. 'Does anyone know a lullaby?'
SJ cleared his throat and sang: Mary had a little lamb, Her father shot it dead. Now Mary takes the lamb to school Between two hunks of bread.
The infant looked at SJ with disgust. 'Is that any kind of poem to tell a small, vulnerable child?'
'Mary-em. What are your views on abortion?'
She narrowed her eyes and placed her hands over her tummy. The flesh flowed around black finger bones. 'Not another word, twerp.'
Crystal smiled, came forward, and knelt by Mary-em, putting both hands on her stomach. And she sang, in a surprisingly clear and sweet contralto. Oh, the queen is giving a ball today and the talkingflowers are there! We'll play croquet with guinea pigs and all the cards will stare. A bird will be my mallet, and I will win the game! But the queen will have my head, just the same…
After she finished, the infant rolled over and looked at her with its star-child eyes. 'Insane but nice. Now. Here's what you do…'
Up in the control chamber, Doris Whitman had curled into a fetal position. Remarkably agile and limber for a woman her age, her alignment and action of limbs precisely duplicated an unborn infant's.
The DreamTime Virtual system translated every motion, every flicker of a finger, with a time lag of less than three thousandths of a second. Doris was the unborn godling, the spawn of Mary-em's loins, and her performance was flawless.
She spoke as she rolled. The DreamTime system altered her voice, raising it in register and pitch until it became a sleepy, childlike whisper.
For a moment the entire control room stopped, leaving all programs on automatic loop routines.
Doris was something very special. Her entire body arched, muscle control so complete that she could imitate weightlessness. Heavy as she was, it seemed absurd that she should move so effortlessly.
And when she finally stopped, allowing her body to rest once again, the entire control room exploded into applause.
