The three Garseddai electors she was carrying had killed two of her lieutenants, and twelve of Sword of Nathtas’s ancillary segments. They had damaged the ship—cut conduits, breached the hull. Accompanying the report, a recording from Sword of Nathtas—the gun that an ancillary segment saw, irrefutably, but that according to Sword of Nathtas’s other sensors just didn’t exist. A Garseddai elector, against all expectations surrounded by the gleaming silver of Radchaai-style armor that only the ancillary’s eyes could see, firing the gun, the bullet piercing the ancillary’s armor, killing the segment, and, with its eyes gone, the gun and armor flickering back into nonexistence.
All the electors had been searched before boarding, and Sword of Nathtas should have been able to detect any weapon or shield-generating device or implant. And while Radchaai-style armor had once been in common use in the regions surrounding the Radch itself, those regions had been absorbed a thousand years before. The Garseddai didn’t use it, didn’t know how to make it, let alone how to use it. And even if they had, that gun, and its bullet, were flatly impossible.
Three people armed with such a gun, and armored, could do a great deal of damage on a ship like Sword of Nathtas. Especially if even one Garseddai could reach the engine, and if such a gun could pierce the engine’s heat shield. Radchaai warship engines burned star-hot, and a failed heat shield meant instant vaporization, an entire ship dissolved in a brief, bright flash.
But there was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do. The message was nearly four hours old, a signal from the past, a ghost. The issue had been decided even before it had reached me.
A harsh tone sounded, and a blue light blinked on the panel in front of me, beside the fuel indicator. An instant before the indicator had read nearly full. Now it read empty. The engine would shut down in a matter of minutes. Beside me Seivarden sprawled, relaxed and quiet.
I landed.
The fuel tank had been rigged in a way I hadn’t detected. It seemed three-quarters full, but it wasn’t, and the alarm that ought to have sounded when I’d used half of what I’d started with had been disconnected.
I thought of the double deposit I certainly wouldn’t see again. Of the proprietor, so concerned that she might lose her valuable flier. Of course there would be a transmitter, whether or not I triggered the emergency call. The proprietor wouldn’t want to lose the flier, just strand me alone in the middle of this plain of moss-streaked snow. I could call for help—I had disabled my communication implants, but I did have a handheld I could use. But we were very, very far from anyone who might be moved to send assistance. And even if help came, and came before the proprietor who clearly meant me no good, I wouldn’t get where I was going, a matter of great importance to me.
The air was minus eighteen degrees; the breeze from the south, at approximately eight kph, implied snow sometime in the near future. Nothing serious, if the morning’s weather report could be trusted.
My landing had left a green-edged smear of white in the snowmoss, easily visible from the air. The terrain seemed gently hilly, though the hills we’d flown over were no longer visible.
Had this been an ordinary emergency, the best course would have been to stay inside the flier until help came. But this was not an ordinary emergency, and I did not expect rescue.
Either they would come as soon as their transmitter told them we were grounded, prepared to murder, or they would wait. The rental had several other vehicles, the proprietor would likely not be inconvenienced if she waited even several weeks to retrieve her flier. As she herself had said, no one would be surprised if a foreigner lost herself in the snow.
I had two choices. I could wait here and hope to ambush anyone who came to murder and rob me, and take their transport. This would, of course, be futile in the event that they decided to wait for cold and hunger to do their job for them. Or I could pull Seivarden out of the flier, shoulder my pack, and walk. My intended destination was some sixty kilometers to the southeast. I could walk that in a day if I had to, ground and weather—and ice devils—permitting, but I would be lucky if Seivarden could do it in twice that time. And that course would be futile if the proprietor decided not to wait, but to retrieve her flier more or less immediately. Our trail through the moss-striated snow would be clear, they would need only to follow us and dispose of us. I would have lost any advantage of surprise I might have gained by hiding near the downed flier.