Shades of Gray (21 page)

“Good. Now to business. You’ve got the layouts of the Orbital and this tunnel system with you?”

“Not only that, but I have several of the late Emperor’s bodyguards with me—ones who set up the modern security devices in there when they revamped the security system,” said Kusac, reaching into the largest pouch on his belt.

“I’ve a couple of extra crew on board, by the way,” said Tirak. “Members of the
Profit’s
new regular crew, to handle the cargo and shuttle when they go down.”

He nodded. “I wondered how you were going to manage that. Your people have made deliveries here before. Will the Primes send out a collection vehicle in the weather that we’ll be creating?”

“Not sure, but the warehouses are near enough that they can start unloading some of the lighter goods into them. Don’t want them sitting on their tails and drawing attention to themselves, after all.”

Tirak’s wrist comm sounded, and as he answered it, Kusac spread the plans on the desk.

“Captain, need Sholans and Valtegans in battle suits in deck 2 workshop,” Annuur said. “Maybe we have way to communicate while underground.”

“I’ll go and take M’kou with me,” Kusac said. “Banner can cover your briefing, at least for the Orbital portion of the mission.”

“They’ll send someone down,” Tirak said, signing off. “I’d rather you did the briefing. Is there some reason you want to see Annuur, because once this is over ...” He tailed off into silence, obviously a little puzzled.

“Not particularly,” he lied. For all he knew, Tirak was as involved as Annuur and Naacha in what had been done to him on Shola after the operation to return his psychic abilities. “Our suits are Prime made. The others don’t know the specs as well as I do.”

Tirak nodded. “Makes sense. You’ll cover the tunnel mission with me when you’re done?”

“Of course. I’ll take M’kou with me to describe the various security measures to Annuur,” he said, getting up. “I want to get this out of the way fairly quickly. My crew could do with some rest time before we reach the Orbital.”

“I’ll have Manesh set up some camp beds in the cargo hold next to the one we’re using as the ready room.”

 

He’d worn a heavy battle suit only four times, all drills, but the training in how to put it on, and quickly, had been ingrained into him by Kaid when they’d trained at Stronghold. The Prime-made ones were essentially the same, and he’d run several drills for them all on their way here.

The suits were now mounted on the back wall of individual stalls, down in the
Venture’s
lower deck Ready Room. All he had to do was back into it, place his feet into the shaped boots, his tail into the jointed extension, then pull the various limb and groin pieces into place, sealing them on the inner edges and at the joints. Last, he reached up to pull down the chest piece. His arms felt heavy, weighted down as they were by five hundred pounds of still slightly loose-fitting body armor, but until he had it in place, he couldn’t power-up.

Settling his chin into the formed hollow, he clicked the chest plate into place, reaching around to either side to activate the seals. A faint hiss, and it was done. He leaned forward, pulling against the gentle tug of the suit’s cradle. Immediately he felt the interior shrink as it began to mold itself to the shape of his body. Moments later, as soon as it had nestled itself firmly around his neck, the power came on and the five hundred pounds of armor weighed nothing at all. Had he been wearing his helmet, he’d have seen the various holo displays on the lower right come to life, giving him a constant feed on both his health and the state of his armor. Instead, he lifted his left forearm and glanced at the secondary readout there. Thankfully, it was ignoring his headache.

Internal suit temperature was rising to compensate for the coldness in the
Venture—
since it was effectively parked, only emergency light and heating were on—magnetics on the boots were off as it had sensed the ship’s own gravitational system, air was off as he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and his built-in weapons were ready to activate.

Switching the latter off, he turned, now totally unaware of the weight of his suit, and reached into the niche where his helmet was stowed. Picking it up, he clumped out into the cargo hold where M’kou had almost finished donning his gray armored suit.

“Ready?”

Picking up his own helmet from the jury-rigged stall, M’kou nodded. Kusac gestured for the young Prime to precede him to the hatch down into the
Profit
. He’d learned from experience the last few days that his suit’s padding cinched his injured thigh a little too tightly for comfort as he walked, and he didn’t want M’kou to see him limping as he acclimated to it. It wasn’t enough to trigger the suit’s automated system, but it was enough to cause him a fair degree of discomfort, even with his heightened tolerance of pain.

 

While they were waiting at the elevator, he leaned his head close to M’kou’s.

“Don’t look directly at Naacha, the one with the blue tattoos on his face,” he said very quietly.

Startled, M’kou pulled back to look at him.

He held his gloved hand up to silence M’kou, then beckoned him close again.

“He’s their mystic. The tattoos can have hypnotic effects on some people,” he whispered when they were in physical contact again. “He’s also a telepath. Different, as we all are, but more than capable of reading us. So no communications, understood?”

“Aye, Captain,
”
he whispered. “Don’t you trust them? Need we be cautious of all of them?”

“Be cautious anyway.” Finding Tirak’s crew on the
Profit
was just a shade too convenient. “They’re allies, but like everyone, they have their own agenda.”

M’kou nodded as he backed off and thumbed the elevator switch.

 

Walking in the powered armor was easier on his leg this time, but he still found the fit around his injured thigh a little too snug for comfort. Obviously some swelling still remained, so he’d been careful until now to not to remain suited-up for too long when they’d been training.

Annuur looked up as they entered. “Good to be seeing you again, Captain. M’kou, this is?”

“Lieutenant M’kou,” he corrected before the young male could, keeping an oblique eye on Naacha as the Cabbaran mystic came down from his angled worktable and began to circle around them, his hooves clicking on the metal floor. M’kou watched him, fascinated, until Kusac nudged him in the ribs.

“Prime construction obvious,” the mystic said, stopping in front of them. “Helmets give to Annuur.” With that he abruptly turned and went back to his workbench.

Kusac moved closer to Annuur and put his helmet down on the bench in front of him. M’kou did the same.

“Seats over there, you bring closer. Too tall are you,” said Annuur, gesticulating vaguely to the other side of the room.

“This is Annuur, and the other Cabbaran is Naacha,” he said to M’kou. “I forgot you haven’t met their species before. They’re Tirak’s Family, and his navigators.”

“A pleasure,” he murmured.

Annuur looked closely at him, nose wrinkling and lips pulling back in his smile. “One of General Kezule’s kin.” He held out his paw. “Good meeting, Lieutenant. Hope we can make comm links for all our suits when underground. Only talk each other, of course. Atmospherics will be blocking all else.”

M’kou took the proffered hand in his gloved one, trying not to stare at the tiny hooves on the end of each digit before he released them.

Annuur turned his attention back to Kusac. “Comms, are they Sholan or Prime, Captain?”

“Bit of both. Certainly Prime and Sholan compatible.”

“Ah. Easier this will be, then,” said the Cabbaran with satisfaction, lifting Kusac’s helmet and turning it upside down to inspect the interior. “Only two systems then needed to talk to each other—ours with yours.”

“We’ll be joined by Crown Prince Zsurtul and another Sholan when we’ve retaken the Orbital.”

“No matter—they can talk, we can talk to your Emperor. Will suffice,” the Cabbaran muttered, poking at the interior controls. “I concentrate now. Give other helmet to Naacha.”

Kusac picked up M’kou’s helmet, gesturing for him to fetch the chairs. Here was his chance to have a quiet word with the mystic.

 

“. . . Surprised how little time that took,” said M’kou. “You’ve been very quiet since you spoke to Naacha, Captain. Is anything wrong?”

Just managing to prevent himself from stopping dead in his tracks, he made some noncommittal reply. A hollow feeling was forming in his gut. Mind racing, he glanced around briefly to orient himself—they were heading back along the corridor to the cargo area designated as the Ready Room. His hand tightened automatically on the hard shell of his helmet. The last thing he remembered was . . . Naacha’s face and the swirling blue tattoos. Curious, that . . .

A sudden chill ran through him, starting at his left shoulder—a feeling as if all the heat were being sucked from him, despite the fact that his suit had its own internal temperature regulation. Words, almost intelligible, seemed to whisper through his mind, accompanied by a fleeting image of piercing blue eyes in a snow-white Sholan face. He forced himself to concentrate, the effort so intense he stumbled.

Remember, Hunter. Remember why you’re angry with them, but don’t let it cloud your judgment.
He heard them then the memory of what they said was gone, like warm breath evaporating on a winter’s day.

M’kou’s hand was there to steady him. “Careful, Captain,” he murmured. “How bad is the pain in your leg? Are you really up to going on this mission?”

“I’m fine,” he said, almost snatching his arm free of M’kou’s as he remembered why he’d wanted to talk to Naacha.

Dammit! He’d been duped yet again, and as easily as if he’d been a youngling just starting training at the Telepath Guild! Once again he’d let his anger override his caution.

Every instinct called out to him to immediately turn around, head back to the workshop, and have it out with Naacha from a safe distance where he couldn’t be affected by the other’s mental abilities, but too much was at stake for that. Memories of Kaid’s lectures on anger control and the proper use of Litanies began to run through his mind, doing nothing to improve his mood as he fought to prevent his tail from lashing from side to side. Cursing inwardly, he continued accompanying M’kou back to the Ready Room.

“Captain,” M’kou said hesitantly. “Your tail . . . The blades along its armor may not be turned on yet, but it’s still dangerous.”

He stopped; mentally taking a deep breath, then began to recite the Litany for Clear Thought as he forced his tail into a neutral position, hanging straight down toward the ground. M’kou’s very real concern for him—and his own safety in the narrow corridor—were written clearly on his face.

“I’m fine, M’kou,” he said, forcing his voice to sound calm. “I wouldn’t go if I thought I would endanger the mission. It’s only making me limp slightly now and then. The powered armor makes walking easier, but the lining is gripping the wound a little, that’s all.”

The Prime’s face lightened. “In that case, let me see to dressing it properly. It’s no sign of weakness to be more comfortable,” he said as Kusac hesitated. “In fact, if I dress it in the Ready Room, it will perhaps give the others more confidence in you when they see you aren’t ignoring the injury.”

“Very well,” he said, a portion of his mind automatically checking the slightly weeping wound at the back of his thigh as he forced his main thoughts back to the business at hand. He couldn’t let his team’s morale be affected right now by having it out with the Cabbarans, but when this was over . . .

 

M’kou left him at the iris, heading off to the sick bay for what he needed. It cycled open just as he was reaching for the key panel.

“I was about to come and find you,” said Banner, stepping aside so he could enter. “We’ve only got ...”

“Four hours and ten minutes left, I know,” he said automatically, stepping inside. “They’ll be up in approximately two and a half hours to fit their comm modulators.”

“Cutting it close.”

“Take them that long to make the number we need,” he said, making his way over to the briefing table and benches that had been set up at one end of the Ready Room. “If they can’t fit them in time, we delay our docking procedure.”

Banner nodded, apparently satisfied.

He unsealed his gloves, taking them off and putting them on the table beside him as he began to start unfastening the seals on his body armor, aware of the suit powering down and its interior retreating from contact with his body.

“Need a hand?”

“Thanks.”

 

As he unfastened the right leg sections, he turned away from Banner, hoping to conceal both the slightly stained dressing at the back of his leg, and its matching patch on the inner protective lining of his armor. He needn’t have bothered.

“It’s not blood,” he said quietly, forestalling his Second. “The inside’s rubbing on the bandage, making the wound weep a little. M’kou’s going to redress it.”

Banner nodded, ducking behind him to check for himself. “Yeah, looks like that’s what it is, right enough. I’ll get your armor cleaned, then.”

Mrowbay, carrying a dressing tray, came padding in with M’kou, gesturing for him to stay on his feet. Both crouched down behind him. He held his short black tunic aside, giving them room to work as M’kou cut the dressing free and the U’Churian ran a scanner over the wound.

“That was deep,” Mrowbay murmured. “Right through the muscle, but as you said, it’s almost healed. I assume if we pad it back and front, the suit will conform to that shape rather than try to compress it?”

“Yes,” said Kusac, submitting to their ministrations impatiently. “M’kou can see to it, Mrowbay. No need to take up your time.”