even find a similar xenotype," she commented, having done a rapid search of the databases available to her shiplink.
"Authorize force!" Horss growled, raising his arm to point at the beast.
"I'm perfectly capable," a thin, clear voice from the creature said, "of conversing with humans. Please wait and don't touch me."
It spoke Twenglish! More surprising than the natural speech was the implication it forced upon them: that it was sentient. The admiral was nearly frozen in contemplation of the mysteries and opportunities placed before her, including a child who shouldn't exist.
Horss wasn't so frozen. "What have you done to the boy?" Horss demanded. "He's injured! Give him to us!"
Demba was pleased with Horss's apparently sincere reaction and regretful of her own lack of initiative. She let him lead, even as her data augment notified her of a stress spike in the telemetry from his class-1 uniform.
"I'm releasing the child to you," the alien said. "He's not dead. I stopped the bleeding. He's not in pain but he will be. I'll move now. Don't be angry. I tried to help him."
The dark mass abandoned its geometry and flowed out from under Samson, causing him to roll limply away from the smoking concrete just uncovered. Horss knelt down to examine Samson as the alien retreated. He wasn't burned, despite the heat of the alien - except for his leg.
"His leg!" Horss exclaimed. "God, God, we let this happen to him!"
A parabolic reflector unfolded instantly from the weapons pod behind the captain's right wrist and a visible beam of energy flashed at the alien. The energy reflected off the being, its flank having metamorphosed into a field of diamond brilliance. Energy scattered in many directions, mostly upward where it pitted the surfaces of the chamber. Channels of vacuum in the super-heated air crackled shut. In the next instant smoke erupted from the floor and the alien poured itself into the hole it made. It disappeared in seconds.
"I would have liked to know more about the alien," the admiral said with augment-forced calm, upset that it departed. She felt there was a connection between it and Samson, because they both spoke Twenglish. Horss jerked her back to reality, made her see the horror of Samson's leg: half of it was missing, as they knew it would be, the stump charred and bloody.
"Damn the alien!" Horss declared. "What a terrible fool I am! The child is real! Let's get him back to the ship!"
"We can't do that now." Demba dreaded what was to come.
"What? Look at his leg! And his face! His hand! How can you let this child suffer? If he becomes conscious he'll be in terrible pain!"
"Your physical telemetry has altered for the worse, Captain. That's a possible precursor signal for a worm attack. Step away from Samson."
If he would move she would try to send Samson by transmat back to the medical cocoon on her yacht. She couldn't concentrate well enough to make the command while watching Horss intently for signs of impending aggression.
"There's a Mnro Clinic on Earth," she said. "We can take him there as soon as possible."
/
Mnro? Physical telemetry? Horss understood the admiral was spying on his physiological data! Mnro: not a good choice for a trigger word. The most famous name in history. Did he feel triggered? No. But he did feel very angry. The Request for Voluntary Reassignment. The kidnapping. The days locked away on her yacht. And now the boy! Why could she not convince him the boy was real, and spare him the guilt and horror of this moment? She deserved punishment!
Horss rose slowly to his feet, tearing his gaze away from the wounded child. The admiral tried to approach to tend to Samson but Horss pushed her roughly away. She stumbled back.
"Samson," she implored, gesturing toward the boy with arm extended.
It would be so easy for him to grab that arm, Horss thought, and just throw her. Just throw her. It won't take long. The boy seems stable, not in any immediate danger. How can I even imagine such a thing? A useless question!
He grabbed for her arm. It was so close, yet he missed it. She moved it out of reach, just by chance, making him look inept. His anger continued to build and he seemed unable to bring it under control. Why did his augments not suppress his chemistry, to reduce his need for rage? Was this how a worm could work? Or was there something else, some other conditioning that was forced on him without his awareness? He put the questions without answers out of his mind. He knew what he could do. It wasn't nice, not even sporting, but it was justice.
/
"You heard the trigger word, Captain!" she declared. Perhaps, but it is a poor choice, she thought. Too prevalent. She didn't know what was happening to Horss. She could see he pondered too many thoughts, weighed too many decisions, to be under the influence of a worm. A worm, she had presumed, should take over his mind and demand the specific action for which it was programmed. She had counted on such a single-minded imperative to lessen the captain's fighting skills, allowing her a chance at survival. She thought he was now acting on his own initiative, trying to decide on a course of action that would satisfy both himself and Admiral Etrhnk.
"Well, little lady, that's a matter of opinion," Horss said in excellent Twenglish, perhaps aping the diction of a character in an old American movie. "I don't have an opinion. Don't care. I just hanker to hurt one of the bad guys. You!"
He attacked. Decades of martial arts training elicited a defensive reaction from her body. For the second time her quickness made him miss and it seemed to anger him. She wasn't surprised to show this small amount of ability. She knew she was quick. She knew she was familiar with every personal combat method to the point of unconscious reaction. But she wasn't the artist that Horss was. She would pay for her transgression against him. She hoped she wouldn't pay with her life.
/
Horss attacked the admiral again, this time to study her ability. He would no longer make a fool of himself. It was apparent that she was trained for personal combat, despite being a desk sailor. He worked around her, trying a list of attacks and feints. She reacted predictably, just as standard training would have her do. In a few moments he was able to inflict minor punishment, knocking her down twice.
"This isn't something I enjoy, Admiral, despite what you may think. You're not a worthy opponent. Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. I'm just making sure you won't make me captain your ship. I'm also working off a little steam, as they used to say in Twenglish. Call it giving you a lesson. If I really wanted to kill you, I would do this."
Horss pressed his attack, but she weathered it more easily than he anticipated, resorting to one of the purely defensive disciplines. He knew the weaknesses in every defensive school of combat. He would show her where they were. It required more effort than he expected, but he intended to hurt the admiral.
As they danced around the sun-struck room, circling the carbon tubes, he remained dissatisfied with the fight. She wouldn't take chances. She wouldn't risk attacking him. Yet he felt she could do better. He sensed that, given the motivation, Admiral Demba might rise further to his challenge. It angered him that she held back, almost as though she didn't want to hurt him. Yes, she was old and she was good, better than she knew she was. He didn't need to hold back with her.
The thought came to him that he could kill her. This woman toyed with him, even though she didn't have the tools she needed to defeat him. She would fight defensively until he gave up, because she knew he held back. She was a smaller woman than those who challenged men in personal combat. She expected him to hold back, being a gentleman and an officer. What would she do if she really felt her life was threatened? If he did kill her - accidentally - her uniform might keep her viable long enough to save her. Why did he need to do this? Why did he want to keep asking himself stupid questions?
Horss circled his adversary, giving her every clue that he now intended to unleash his full arsenal upon her. She half-crouched in a defensive stance but as she took the clues to his real intent, she relaxed into an upright position, as though she would resign the match.
"You will fight," H
orss threatened.
/
She didn't respond to his words. She responded to the language of his body, his declaration of war. Something more changed in her. As she watched him, seeing every vector of energy in the geometry of his body, seeing which muscles contracted, seeing where his eyes looked, seeing where his eyes should look next, she awaited his assault as it seemed to begin in slow motion. She could sense his first move and the two after that. She could determine which fist or elbow or knee or foot would become his weapon at exactly which point in space and time. At the computed instant a fire blazed through her body, forcing her limbs and torso through the painful distances needed to position herself for the killing blow. She couldn't stop it. She could only marvel at the process.
/
Samson awoke. He cried out in pain. His leg was on fire somewhere below his knee. As he wept he saw motion through his tear-blurred eyes. He blinked away tears just in time to vaguely see the admiral and the captain collide. The captain jerked sideways, fell, and lay still. The admiral spun away and he could not keep her in his cloudy view. After only seconds, the Navy officers could no longer hold his attention away from the pain. He closed his eyes and gasped to fill his lungs for screaming.
/
She killed him! How could she have killed him? Demba never intended to harm Horss. She didn't think she was