Lois Bujold - Falling Free

They were only a few meters down the corridor when Claire heard the pounding of downsider footcoverings again, moving fast, with uncertain pauses as if for direction. A row or two over; the steps must shortly thread the lattice to them. Then an echo of the steps—no, another set.

What happened next seemed all in a moment, suspended between one breath and the next. Ahead of them, a grey-uniformed downsider leaped from a cross-corridor into their own with an unintelligible shout. His legs were braced apart to support his half-crouch, and he clutched a strange piece of equipment in both hands, held up half a meter in front of his face. His face was as white with terror as Claire’s own.

Ahead of her, Tony dropped the pack and reared up on his lower arms, his upper hands flung wide, crying, “No!”

The downsider recoiled spasmodically, his eyes wide, mouth gaping in shock. Two or three bright flashes burst from his piece of equipment, accompanied by sharp cracking bangs that echoed, splintered, all through the great warehouse. Then the downsider’s hands jerked up, the object flung away. Had it malfunctioned or short-circuited, burning or shocking him? His face drained further, from white to green.

Then Tony was screaming, flopping on the floor, all his arms curling in on himself in a tight ball of agony.

“Tony? Tony!” Claire scrambled toward him, Andy clamped tightly to her torso and crying and screaming in fear, his racket mingling with Tony’s in a terrifying cacophony. “Tony, what’s wrong?” She didn’t see the blood on his red T-shirt until some drops spattered on the concrete. The bicep of his left lower arm, as he rolled toward her, was a scrambled, pulsing, scarlet and purple mess. “Tony!”

The company security guard had rushed forward. His face was harrowed with horror, his hands empty now and rumbling with a portable comm link hooked to his belt. It took him three tries to detach it. “Nelson! Nelson!” he called into it. “Nelson, for God’s sake call the medical squad, quick! It’s just kids! I just shot a kid!” His voice shook. “It’s just some crippled kids!”

Leo’s stomach sank at the sight of the yellow pulses of light reflecting off the warehouse wall. Company medical squad; yes, there was their electric truck, blinkers flashing, parked in the wide central aisle. The breathless words of the clerk who’d met their shuttle tumbled through his brain—… found in the warehouse… there’s been an accident… injury… Leo’s steps quickened.

“Slow down, Leo, I’m getting dizzy,” Van Atta, behind him, complained irritably. “Not everybody can bounce back and forth between null-gee and one-gee like you do with no effects, you know.”

“They said one of the kids was hurt.…”

“So what are you going to do that the medics can’t? I, personally, am going to crucify that idiot Security team for this.…”

“I’ll meet you there,” Leo snarled over his shoulder, and ran.

Aisle 29 looked like a war zone. Smashed equipment, stuff scattered everywhere—Leo half tripped over a couple of round metal cover plates, kicked them impatiently out of his way. A pair of medics and a Security guard were huddled over a stretcher on the floor, an IV bag hoisted on a pole like a flag above them.

Red shirt; Tony, it was Tony who’d been hurt. Claire was crouched on the floor a little farther down the aisle, clutching Andy, tears streaming silently down her ragged white mask of a face. On the stretcher, Tony writhed and cried out with a hoarse sob.

“Can’t you at least give him something for pain?” the security guard urged the medtech.

“I don’t know.” The medtech was clearly flustered. “I don’t know what all they’ve done to their metabolisms. Shock is shock, I’m safe with the IV and the warmers and the synergine, but as for the rest of it—”

“Patch in an emergency comm link to Dr. Warren Minchenko.” Leo advised, kneeling beside them. “He’s chief medical officer for the Cay Habitat, and he’s on his month’s downside leave right now. Ask him to meet you at your infirmary; he’ll take over the case there.”

The Security guard eagerly unhooked his comm link and began punching in codes.

“Oh, thank God,” said the medtech, turning to Leo. “At last, somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing. Do you know what I can give him for pain, sir?”

“Uh…” Leo did a quick mental review of his first aid. “Syntha-morph should be all right, until you get in touch with Dr. Minchenko. But adjust the dose—these kids weigh less than they look like they ought to—I think Tony masses about, um, 42 kilos.” The peculiar nature of Tony’s injuries dawned on Leo at last. He had been picturing a fall, broken bones, maybe spinal cord or cranial damage… “What happened here?”

“Gunshot wound,” reported the medtech shortly. “Left lower abdomen and… and, um, not femur—left lower limb. That’s just a flesh wound, but the abdominal one is serious.”

“Gunshot!” Leo stared aghast at the guard, who reddened. “Did you—I thought you guys carried stunners—why in the name of God—”

“When that damned hysteric called down from the Habitat, yammering about his escaped monsters, I thought—I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” The guard glowered at his boots.

“Didn’t you look before you fired?”

“I damn near shot the girl with the baby.” The guard shuddered. “I hit this kid by accident, jerking my aim away.”

Van Atta panted up. “Holy shit, what a mess!” His eye fell on the security guard. “I thought I told you to keep this quiet, Bannerji. What did you do, set off a bomb?”

“He shot Tony,” said Leo through his teeth.

“You idiot, I told you to capture them, not murder them! How the hell am I supposed to sweep this—” he waved his arm down Aisle 29, “under the rug? And what the hell were you doing with a pistol anyway?”

“You said—I thought—” the guard began.

“I swear I’ll have you canned for this. Of all the ass-backwards—did you think this was some kind of feelie-dream drama? I don’t know whose judgment is worse, yours or the jerk’s who hired you—”

The guard’s face had gone from red to white. “Why you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you set me up for this—”

Somebody had better keep a level head, Leo thought wretchedly. Bannerji had retrieved and bolstered his unauthorized weapon, a fact Van Atta seemed to be unconscious of—the temptation to shoot the project chief shouldn’t be allowed to get too overwhelming—Leo intervened. “Gentlemen, may I suggest that charges and defenses would be better saved for a formal investigation, where everyone will be cooler and, er, more reasoned. Meantime we have some hurt and frightened kids to take care of.” Bannerji fell silent, simmering with injustice. Van Atta growled assent, contenting himself with a black look toward Bannerji that boded ill for the guard’s future career. The two medtechs snapped down the wheels of Tony’s stretcher and began rolling him down the aisle toward their waiting truck. One of Claire’s hands reached out after him, fell back hopelessly.

The gesture caught Van Atta’s attention. Full of suppressed rage, he discovered he had an object on which to vent it after all. “You—1” he turned on Claire.

She flinched into a tighter huddle. “Do you have any idea what this escapade of yours is going to cost the Cay Project, first to last? Of all the irresponsible—did you con Tony into this?” She shook her head, eyes widening. “Of course you did, isn’t it always the way. The male sticks his neck out, the female gets it chopped off for him…”

“Oh, no.…”