We left our heroes in the dining room, talking to a mixed group of six
nephilim and humans whom they have just plucked from the Battle of
Destine. We've explained that efforts to repel the invaders are going
to fail. The Destinos feels depressed about this, naturally, but also
don't feel like running out on their countrymen. So they decide to go
back and fight, but with the object of living through the mass abduction
and thus providing us with psychic targets to make it easier for us to
locate and rescue the Destinos.
To cement the psychic connection, Tom briefly telepaths each of them.
Telepathing the nephilim is almost as bad as telepathing Braeta --
there's a painful zing to the contact. Tom also asks
for tokens.
Their scout, who is part nephil, gives him a small leather pouch that
he's had all his life, abjuring Tom not to open it or spill anything
out. Tom readily agrees. Another gives a pocket knife. They let us
keep the blood samples our autodoc acquired while healing up one of
their number.
We ask them about their elfblood population. They were on Destine for
the same reason the nephilim and their followers were -- trying to
escape (or obey) the Ban that the Eretsarin have placed on arcane folk
on Earth.
Then, after being rested, fed, and healed, they troop back into the
pantope and we drop them back into the battle. Keeping the locale in
freeze-frame, we hunt around and let them pick out a desirable place,
where they can hope to take out a lot of dragontroopers before being
captured.
Once they disembark, we take our window up to a vantage over the nearby
streets, and watch the action. We plan to pick up a straggler from
among the dragontroopers next time our friends cause a little mayhem.
We don't have to wait long. A convoy comes along, featuring a couple of
huge pallets heavily loaded with mysterious lumps under wraps, some
trucks that can probably fly if they to, some jeep-like things, a staff
car, and lots of dragontroopers on foot, guns at the ready.
Our guerillas apparently manage to spread themselves out, for they
attack by sniping from several vantages at once. They then shoot a
mortar shell under one of the big pallets, which explodes. Our guys
then pepper the resulting pandemonium with more fire.
We slow our window to quarter speed and watch the slow-motion results as
one of our boys (Hector) blows a hole in the last truck of the convoy.
Hm. Freeze-frame. Rewind.
We back up to just before the explosion and look into the truck. There
are a couple of dragontroopers, one driving, one passenger. Since these
guys are going to be in an exploding truck, we decide we can extract one
for questioning without raising any attention. We poise several of our
own number near the window for the moment when we make it into a door
and drag the passenger through it. Markel and the gargoyle will do the
dragging, while Robbie and Gannar with throw stunner fire in at both
dragontroopers.
We open.
boom
No, that's not the mortar shell that takes out the truck. That's a
smaller boom caused when our door appears, cutting the chemical bonds in
the seat and door of the truck, next to the passenger. We weren't
expecting that, but Markel still drags the guy through and--
BOOM
That was the mortar shell. Markel and the trooper are
sent flying,
and recoil against the wall of the nearby airlock hut. Markel is
knocked out. Tom slams the door shut, dropping the connection.
Oops. He slammed it shut a little too fast. A chunk of the trooper's
left leg and a bit of his hand got left behind. He's bleeding
profusely. He is also writhing, but quite thoroughly stunned, so it's
no more than an inconvenience. We drag him into the tent in the
pantope, and put him into the field autodoc. (Markel is, meanwhile,
hustled off to the autodoc back in the house infirmary. Handy gadgets,
autodocs.)
The autodoc immediately complains about having an unknown alien organism
stuffed in it. Gannar tells it to treat it as a combination of human
and reptile, and improvise. The autodoc registers a certain amount of
incredulity, but does its best.
When the autodoc has the bleeding under control and thinks the trooper
is unconscious, Tom tries making telepathic contact, for a memory audit.
Agony.
Conscious or unconscious, it's in too much pain for Tom to stand reading
it. He backs out, panting, and demands the autodoc load it with
painkillers. The autodoc inquires as to its biosphere. Probably
Terran. It registers some more incredulity. After looking the
situation over, it says that any guesses it might make about painkillers
could be hazardous to the patient's health and it could only administer
them if we are willing to override its medical ethics program, thereby
relieving the manufacturer of all responsibility, etc., etc., sign
here. Tom signs.
The autodoc tries, but fails to notice much change. Kate eases into the
contact while Tom tries to get over the sympathetic throbbing down his
left side. She only goes as deep as the emotional level. A stolid
passivity. She goes to Verbal. Nothing.
She then turns the task over to Tom, who takes the contact down to
Sensory. Agony again.
Tom staggers over to the connection to the house and fast-forwards it by
a few hours, to give Markel time to get out of the house autodoc. We
then transfer the trooper to this autodoc, which is more sophisticated.
But not really enough. It, too, dislikes doing biochemistry on unknown
species, even with hints like "probably Terran" and "a cross between elf
and reptile, maybe archosaur." We sign some more waiver forms and it
tries pumping in some other painkillers. It looks at the result and
says this is probably life-threatening. We let it back off a little and
Tom goes in again.
This time the agony is endurable. Whee. Any human would be numb and in
shock, well before the painkillers, but not this guy. Looking over his
memory, Tom starts to see why. He's not about thought or emotion, he's
about sensation. Is he stupid? Yes. No. Hard to say. He doesn't
bother to think (or emote) if there's no call for it. He senses, all
the time, and in great detail. In his tight focus, he is reminiscent of
the dragon-spies of Patala we intercepted back in Faerie. Tom's efforts
at a memory audit are frustrated by masses and masses of
vividly-recalled sensory detail -- the most recent bits of it highly
unpleasant, at least to Tom.
Tom's efforts are not helped by the alien senses that all this data came
through. The guy may taste with his skin or something. His color sense
is very vivid and not really human. His vision picks up very quickly on
motion. And he was hurting even before we got him, from an early
blaster shot, some hours before. But he isn't concerned about it.
Looking for something specifically military, Tom back up along the
memory trail until he comes to an officer telling this trooper "get in
the truck." The trooper has vivid memories of the guy's insignia.
There were lots of them, and each of them meant something, though Tom
can't sort out what. The upshot of them was that, here and now, he was
to be obeyed.
Tom looks for associative paths for things like goals and policies.
Very little. that's too cognitive. Mostly, this guy just obeys, it
seems, when someone with the right insignia for the context issues an
order. Tom reflects that the trooper may very well have no idea what
this battle is about.
Tom looks for an early memory. He finds a pleasant memory of a very hot
day in the desert. Like unto Death Valley. (Well, it's pleasant if
you're a reptile.) Lots of dragonfolk frantically dashing about,
excited. A big cobra-man rearing up making a speech or something, with
blazing orange eyes. The details are relatively fuzzy, since it's a
very old memory.
Tom goes back to the issue of insignia. They reflect all kinds of
things: rank, family, service history, myriad specializations of
service. The trooper caught a glimpse of the officers in the convoy
staff car. They were all quite different, one from another.
What about expectations? He has some. There's a picture (presumably
synthetic in some way) of a big machine creating the dimensional gateway
we've dubbed the Great Sucking Noise. Maybe the convoy was carrying
part of the machine. In that case, they got along without it.
But he has no expectations beyond that point of delivering the machine.
We give up. What to do with him? With some slight pangs of conscience,
we drop him back under the wrappings of the doomed pallet, seconds
before it gets blown up, giving him a death more painless than his last
hour or so has been.
Next.
Updated: 7-Oct-06
©1984, 1994, 2005 Earl Wajenberg. All Rights Reserved.
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