The Burning Ground

3. Night swimming with eels

Shadith slipped out of the long dress she’d worn to cover her swimming tack and stuffed it into her gearsac, pushing it down behind the break-in kit Digby had provided along with other bits and pieces he thought would prove useful. She knelt in the deep black shadow at the end of the wharf where the weathered stone rose a dozen meters above the surface of the water. Old Tiger was moving in his hole. She could feel the hunger developing in him; if she left him alone, in another half hour he’d come gliding out to chase down some dinner. Sorry, old son, she thought. But this won’t take long.

She pulled on the breather hood, clamped down on his brain, slid over the side, and lowered herself into the water.

Old Tiger was a horror mask snarling in her face as she kicked herself down to meet him. She caught hold of the ragged crest that ran down his backbone, positioned herself beside him and sent him swimming at top speed toward k’Wys.

When his body brushed against her as they plunged through the darkness, she could feel the slide of those long live muscles fighting the resistance of the water. It was a wild intoxicating ride and made her want to howl at the moon for the glory of it all.

She scolded herself to order as the slopes of k’Wys loomed before them, set the eel to searching for the configurations around the blowhole she wanted.

The crescent moon was low on the horizon when she pulled herself cautiously from the hole and wriggled through the thornbush until she could stretch out on a mix of gravel and dead grass and use her nightglasses to sweep the area around the hangar.

Quiet. No one around. As usual.

She eased up, squatted, and pulled the gearsac round where she could get at it. Screened by the brush and the folds of rock, mindtouch reaching out to warn her if anyone came round, she stripped off the wetsuit, rolled it into a tight cylinder, and tucked it into a crack in the stone. No point in dripping on the hangar floor. The breather hood she contemplated for a moment, then slid it into a press pouch on the outside of the sac. There might come a time when she needed it.

By the time she was ready to move, the moon was gone and clouds were blowing across the stars, thickening the darkness. The wind had risen and was whipping dead leaves and grit across the ground. She let it whip her along with them, turned the corner of the hangar, and stopped before the small personnel door. She clicked on the reader Digby had given her, confirmed what her own senses told her. The only barrier was mechanical. She flipped the reader over, extruded the quickpic, and inserted it into the slot.

A moment later she eased the door open and slipped inside. As she started to turn so she could relock the door, there was a swift scrabbling and a sudden weight slammed into her, knocking her flat.

Carrion breath.

Feet on her back, nails ripping into her shirt and the skin beneath it.

Teeth closing on the nape of her neck.

The instant she felt the weight, her mindride stabbed out, froze the beast.

She lay with her face in the dust, holding desperately to the grip she had on him.

Focus. Slow. No hurry. You know how to do this. Follow the pathways, take control, bleed off the rage… In another few breaths she had him.

She opened his mouth, walked him off her back, then rolled up and scowled at him and through his eyes at herself. It was a weird feeling. She eased off on the hold, played a moment in his pleasure centers, then brought him closer so she could rub her hands over him and get him used to her scent.

The faint light coming through clerestory windows high overhead showed her a black canine with a flash of white on his neck. She dug her fingers into his droopy jowls, scratched behind his ears, worked down his spine, evoking slobbery whimpers and an ecstatic wriggle of his hindquarters. Gradually she removed the controls, starting to breathe again as he stayed friendly. He, was an intelligent beast and not mad at the world, no meanness in him, just doing his job.

“Yes, you’re a good dog, aren’t you. With a good trainer, you like him, don’t you. He’s my friend, you’re my friend. Feels good when I scratch you like that, doesn’t it. Ah, spla, your breath’s enough to knock over an ox. So I’ll get up. Down, boy, feet on the floor. That’s right. Head at my knee. Now let’s go explore.”

Panting and dripping slobber, he trotted beside her as she moved about the hangar, using a minute pinlight to see what the Ptaks kept in that vast gloomy building.

There were four fliers parked in the center of the stained metacrete floor. A fifth was racked with one of the lifters stripped, waiting for repairs which a certain thickness of dust suggested no one was rushing to complete.

None of the locks were engaged.

They were standard haulers with the cargo hold below the passenger module. The hold was a rectangular box with a grating floor, straps for tying bales and bundles, and a series of wall bins. Stowing away wouldn’t be difficult if she could figure out which flier the Cobben planned to use.

She moved away from them and stood, hands on hips, scowling at four large shadows. “Well, dog, it’s really too bad you can’t talk. Or would you even know? Maybe they haven’t decided themselves which beast they’re going to ride. Shays! I really don’t want the noise it’d make if I had to steal one of those things. It’s a nest in the rafters for me, dog. Sleep out the night and watch which one they load up with supplies and hope they do it ahead of time.”

The dog pushed his muzzle against her hip and wagged his stumpy tail as she dug her fingers into the ruff round his neck.

“You’re a love, aren’t you?” She chuckled. “Deadly little love. I’d be cold meat without the mindride. Ah, spla, my fault, not yours. Should have read the building before I went in. Hmp. Time for you to get back to work and me to find myself a perch.”

Early morning sunlight was streaming through the narrow clerestory windows when the large doors slid open. The dog trotted to the door, stood a moment, ruff bristling, a ridge of hair rising along his spine. There was a sound that Shadith felt rather than heard. The dog relaxed and trotted out of sight. A moment later a cargo carrier hummed in.

It settled beside the nearest flier, then a small wiry man followed the handler out. Lying on a rafter high above them, Shadith smiled tightly as he spoke. Cobben on the job. The voice told her which. Orm.

With the loader ‘bots working steadily and in spite of Orm’s fussy interference, the transfer of the goods was quickly finished. As the handler loaded the ‘bots onto the carrier, Orm climbed into the passenger section of the flier. Shadith tensed, listening to the clinks and clunks he made, wondering if he were going to settle in and wait for the others. The Coryfe said noon and that was several hours off, but maybe they’d changed the time.

The handler walked round the carrier, making sure the ‘bots and the stakes were properly in place, then he slammed down the locking lever and climbed into the cab. The hum of the lifters filled the hangar. Orm dropped from the flier’s cabin and ran to the carrier.

A moment later the hangar’s door hummed shut.

Shadith circled the flier, Digby’s readout telling her that Orm had activated some sort of alarm. The readout wasn’t sensitive enough to do more, so she clicked it off and crouched in the shadow next to the cargo hatch, eyes shut, trying to trace the energy flows. Since most of the system was potential rather than actual, it was a bitch to read. She was sweating and her head was throbbing by the time she managed to trip the switch and shut the thing off.

She used the quickpic to unlock the hatch and crawled inside; there was just room to wriggle along on top of the padded crates. At the back of the hold there was a small pile of unused padding and a space large enough for her to sit with some comfort. She slipped her arms from the straps of her gearsac, pushed it to one side, lowered herself onto the padding, then sat scowling at the crate in front of her, trying to decide if she should reset the alarm.

If it was internal as well as external… if she needed a passpartout to convince it she was part of the cargo… dogs were easier…

The Cobben might have gotten sloppy through easy living, but she couldn’t count on them missing an obvious thing like a switched-off alarm. She closed her eyes, found the configuration after a few moments of fumbling about, sucked in a breath, and flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.

Right. Now all I’ve got to worry about is boredom. Hours of boredom. Do I dare sleep? Better question is how do I stay awake? She yawned, arranged one of the pads behind her, curled up as comfortably as she could, and went to sleep.