City of Ruins

THIRTY-FIVE



Early the next morning, I head back to the caves. I take Bridge with me. Bridge has been the one talking with the Bug driver. I figure Bridge can continue talking with him. These Vaycehnese and their unwillingness to deal with women have driven me crazy so far, and I don’t want to fight that today.

I’ve sent Ilona to work with the Vaycehnese government to get us back into those caves as quickly as possible. She’s also supposed to argue for letting our experienced team members help with the groundquake/death hole emergency. But I have another reason for getting them involved. I need the scientists and archeologists to see that death hole up close.

I’m not that interested in the death hole. I want to get below, figure out what’s going on with the ship, figure out if the ship is still there. And I have a hunch that if I don’t push the Bug operator, he’ll take all of our money while he’s taking his own sweet time.

More than one person has expressed concern that we’re keeping the Bug away from rescue work. They tell me he needs to be at the death hole and the groundquake destruction. I’ve had to remind each and every person who mentions this that we might hold the solution, not just to this groundquake and death hole, but to all of the death holes in the future.

We might be able to stop them.

Future thinking is not something my group is good at. Some think very well about the past, others think quite well about the small things that make up our universe, but very few of them have training in thinking about what lies ahead.

I have that training, but it’s hard-won. It comes from diving, where each handhold might cause a possible disaster. It comes from planning trips to faraway areas of space, where I’m often on my own. And lately, it has come from righting the Enterran Empire, who would love to know about this discovery, deep underground here on Wyr.

I have more than one reason to keep this discovery silent as long as possible. I want to figure out how to get that ship out of here, so that we can study it.

If we can’t get the ship out of here, I want to claim it somehow, so that the Empire can’t. I’m not sure how to do that; this is Enterran space, after all. We’re in their territory, whether we like it or not.

I only got five hours of sleep even though I was exhausted, mostly because I’ve been worried about this aspect of our discovery. As excited as I am, I’m afraid we may have given the Empire exactly what it needs: a working stealth-tech model, so that they can build their own stealth-tech ships.

My only hope is to work quickly, and my only hope of working quickly comes from getting this damn Bug operator to clear the caves.

The morning dawned clear and hot. I am beginning to understand that there are degrees of hot, that what I thought was hot when we first arrived wasn’t hot at all by Vaycehn’s standards. This morning, before the sun is even all the way up, is hotter than any day we’ve experienced so far.

Bridge and I have arrived at the same time that the Bug driver has. I hadn’t seen him put the Bug away the night before. We left before he did. This morning, it arrives with him, a big clunky machine that walks uneasily across the rubble-strewn landscape.

The pod sinks down a few meters from the hole. Then the driver gets out. He’s a burly man, younger than I would have thought, with muscles like Mikk’s, although only on his arms. His brown hair is cropped short. He wears a shirt with no sleeves, and very short pants, revealing hairy legs. His feet are encased in sandals.

He walks over to Bridge, gesturing as he does so.

Even though I’m several meters away, I can tell that the operator is unhappy. He thought he’d be here alone this morning.

And that’s a good sign. It meant he was going to honor his commitment to us, rather than take our money and go on to another job.

Bridge talks to him, and nods toward me. The man looks over Bridge’s shoulder and shakes his head slightly.

Bridge already told me what he was going to do. He was going to play to their prejudices, say how difficult it is to work for a woman. He was going to complain that I want to go back down, even though he has tried to talk me out of it. He told me this before we came, and spoke hesitantly, as if he expected me to disapprove.

To his surprise, I didn’t disapprove. I am for anything that gets us back to that ship quickly.

Both men are laughing now, and I’m sure it’s at my expense. My cheeks warm, even though this was planned. I clutch my bottle of water and wander toward the men, taking my time.

First I look at the opening to the cave. It’s so much bigger than it seems when you take a hovercart through it. Or when you climb out of it while completely exhausted. Big enough to swallow a small building.

I resist the urge to groan. My legs are even sorer this morning than they were last night. I had no idea that was possible. I feel ancient and injured, even though I know I’m not.

I’m glad I’ve given the Six the day off, as well as Mikk and Roderick. They’re right; I should have taken it too.

But I won’t move much once I’m in the Bug.

“Boss!”

I look over at Bridge. He’s gesturing to me. I smile as if I don’t know what he’s been up to and walk carefully over to them. I’m not going to let anyone know how very sore I am.

“This is Paplas,” Bridge says, indicating the driver, who watches me closely. “He owns and operates the Reclaimer.”

The way Bridge says the machine’s name is also a direction; we’re not to call the machine a Bug in front of Paplas.

I nod. Paplas’s gray eyes watch me, then he nods back.

“He’s going to let us go with him,” Bridge says, “but we have to follow his rules.”

“We do not come up until I say.” Paplas speaks Standard with that lovely lilt all of the Vaycehnese have. “I stay there, with my lunch, until I am done for the day. I do not work extra hours. It taxes the Reclaimer.”

He’s making sure I know that he won’t bend for me, or for Bridge for that matter.

“All right,” I say.

“If you are ill, if there is a problem, you tell me now,” Paplas says. “I will not come back except for an emergency.”

“I understand,” I say.

“You will sit behind me,” he says. “You will ask no questions.”

I open my mouth, then close it as Bridge gives me a sideways look. He has permission to ask questions. I do not. In other words, I’m to sit there quietly and watch while the men take care of business.

I hope Bridge will ask the questions we need. If not, I hope he’ll confer with me, maybe quietly, so that he can ask the questions I think of. We might need answers later.

I am worried about a repeat of yesterday’s events. I hope Bridge will discuss that with him as well.

“I understand that, too,” I say.

Paplas nods and walks away from me. He’s heading back to the Bug. We follow.

Up close the pod looks huge. It is both wider and taller than it looks when it’s in motion. The gigantic legs bend and tower above us. Their sides have movable blades that dig into mountainsides. There are several other pieces of equipment attached to the legs that look movable as well. I can’t tell what those pieces are for.

The bottom of the legs themselves—the feet, for lack of a better word— are bendable. They seem to have a way to adhere to a surface.

Suddenly, my technical interest is piqued, and I wish I can talk to Paplas, one pilot to another. But I cannot.

Bridge sees me looking at the legs, but doesn’t understand that I have questions.

The questions aren’t important yet. They can wait. I have a hunch we’ll be back tomorrow, and if we are, then Bridge can ask about the working mechanism of the legs and feet.

Paplas stands near the door of the Bug. It’s clear, like the rest of the pod. Inside there are two seats up front, and a bench seat in the back. The ceiling is high.

What surprises me is that the equipment, and the seats, are in the exact middle of the pod. Like a single ship, then, the pod is designed to work in any direction.

I didn’t expect to see something like that on land.

“You will strap in,” Paplas says. “You will not touch the restraints except when we have to leave.”

He points out a service area in the very back, which has a bathroom and a place to store our gear. Nothing will remain loose in the pod itself.

He explains why, but he doesn’t need to—at least for me. I understand. The pod will rotate 360 degrees at various times during the day. Anything loose will fall on us.

The pod doesn’t have artificial gravity.

“You will sit there,” he says to me as he points to the part of the bench farthest from him. “Go.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I climb up the tiny set of stairs, then boost myself up to the seat. As I clamber over to it, I glance behind me. Paplas looks amused.

I seem to have passed the first test.

I figure out the various straps and restrainers while Bridge climbs in beside me. As Paplas gets in, I look at the controls. Dozens of them, all of them marked in Vaycehnese. The handles look well used, and the lettering has come off of many of the labels.

This machine is older than she looks, well loved and well maintained.

That makes me feel better—or at least it does until he starts her up. The pod jerks as he puts it into some kind of gear.

Then we rise.

None of the movements are smooth. I have a good sense of direction. I also do well under g-forces and in strange positions. But Bridge looks a bit ill. I hope he can survive something that will whip him around like a ball on a string.

But I don’t warn him. I’ve been told to remain silent, and I do. I do, however, see a small group of sick bags tucked behind the pilot’s seat. I point them out to Bridge.

His eyes narrow—I don’t need that, he seems to say—but as I look away, I note him checking their position.

It will be a long day. But, I hope, it will be a profitable one.

We need to get back to work.

I am more worried about that ship than I can say.

* * * *