Radiant (42 page)

Festina, Li, and Ubatu would soon turn that way too: the two diplomats couldn't be left on their own in the jungle, and they refused to go back to Drill-Press. Ubatu could walk—slowly, with a limp, muttering inarticulately thanks to her slack jaw—so proceeding forward was the best of a bunch of bad possibilities. Anyway, Festina wanted to get back to where she'd left me, to make sure I was safe. Who knew how many more Rexies might lurk in the darkness?

I
knew. Two more Rexies were approaching fast from the south. They'd been coming this way all the time, following Festina and me as we'd gone back to help the others.

The Rexies would reach me long before Festina would—with her glow-tube destroyed she'd have to stumble through near-total blackness, while the Rexies came on, unerringly guided by
pretas.
I could even tell I'd been singled out as the animals' target; I was helpless, and they were zeroing in on me, timing their pace to arrive simultaneously.

Aloud I said, "The next few minutes are going to be tricky." Then I began pulling myself along the ground, heading for the river.

It was hard going. My legs were useless, nothing but deadweight. I could pull myself forward with my arms, but when the foliage was low it was slippery under my hands, and when it was high I had to bulldoze my way past countless stalks and tangles. The mustard smell of Muta's ferns was thick and pungent this close to the ground, made stronger as plants in my wake were crushed to pulp beneath me. I didn't have far to crawl to the river—only forty meters from where Festina left me—but getting there took the effort of a marathon.

Even as I crawled, I scouted ahead mentally. The bank itself was much like the one where Festina had just finished her own battle—a low, sandy cliff, slightly less than a story high and overgrown with a breed of tall, thin ferns that unfortunately had evolved primitive thorns. The area between me and the bank was slathered with the same sort of weed, mercilessly scratching my face and hands. (The rest of my body suffered no harm, thanks to the Team Esteem uniform. Nanomesh can't withstand rain, kicks, or Rexy bites, but at least it's resilient enough to shrug off a few plant prickers.)

I had one great advantage in the coming confrontation: my total mental awareness. I knew exactly where the Rexies were; I knew where to find a fist-sized rock that could be pried loose from the wet mud; I knew which sections of the bank were solid and which were ready to crumble if you put too much weight on them; I even knew how much weight was too much. I thought to myself as I crawled along,
I'm living a Bamar folktale
—one of those stories where a saint is threatened by ravenous beasts and wins out by the power of enlightenment.

Of course, in my ancestors' folklore, "winning out" didn't always mean surviving. Sometimes the beasts still got you, but you earned a really good rebirth.

I reached the lip of the bank mere seconds ahead of the Rexies... but along the way, I'd dug up the rock I needed. I held the stone tight as I waited on the edge of the drop-off.

The Rexies appeared moments later—the first time I'd seen them with my real eyes. They both looked tall and imposing (at least to a crippled woman sitting on the ground). I knew they'd screech before they attacked; all the other Rexies had done the same. Perhaps it was a standard tactic to freeze their prey with panic... or perhaps the Rexies were crying in agony as the
pretas
in their skulls jolted their brains into action. Either way, their auras gave away the exact instant when they began to open their mouths. I threw my rock at the closest and scored a perfect hit: straight to the back of the throat.

The Rexy blinked in surprise. It tried to shriek, but only managed a wheeze. Then it coughed, trying to dislodge the blockage in its windpipe. The animal wasn't completely choked up—the rock I'd chosen wasn't a perfect fit. Still, the Rexy could barely draw air around the edges of the rock, and its instincts would force it to hack and wheeze until it gagged up the obstruction.

One Rexy neutralized, at least temporarily. One more to go. It charged... not a smart thing to do when the target is right on the edge of a cliff.

I rolled aside at the last split second. The Rexy still got a chunk of me; though my upper body evaded fast enough, my legs straggled limply behind and my right calf got gouged by the Rexy's claws. Since my right calf no longer belonged to me—it was now strictly Balrog territory—I didn't feel pain. I simply saw the claw stab in... and I couldn't help laughing as Balrog spores under the skin beat a hasty retreat to avoid being seen at the edges of the wound. A moment later, the nanomesh uniform (briefly torn by the incoming talon) sealed itself back up, hiding the spores beneath.

As for the Rexy, it kept going, unable to stop its momentum after trampling me. Right over the lip of the bank, belly-flopping into the water below.

The Rexy could swim—not well, just the usual frantic paddle of land animals that find themselves in deep water—but I trusted the beast wouldn't drown. Not even in the fast-flowing flood from the rain. It was, after all, far lighter than a mammal of comparable size: almost as light as a bird. The Rexy would ride the torrent, head above water, till the current washed it ashore... and if we were all lucky, the shore where it landed would be the far side of the river. Ending up over there, the Rexy would lose its usefulness to the
pretas.
There was no easy way to get the animal to our side of the river again, since it couldn't swim against the Grindstone's heavy current, and the only bridges were back in Drill-Press. Therefore, if the Rexy washed up on the opposite shore, the clouds would have no further reason to keep it enslaved. They'd release their hold on its brain and let the animal return to its normal life.

At least, that's what I hoped. I had no wish for the Rexy to die. I had no wish for
anything
to die... including the Rexy who remained in front of me, still trying to clear its throat.

I wondered if there was any way a woman paralyzed from the waist down could administer the Heimlich maneuver to a dinosaur.

But that proved unnecessary. With a heave of its lungs, the Rexy finally coughed the stone onto the ground. It turned its head toward me, eyes bleary; it held my gaze for a moment, as if saying, "To hell with the
pretas.
Now this is personal." Then it screeched and came for me.

It didn't make the mistake of charging. Even if the Rexy itself wasn't bright enough to learn from what happened to its companion, the
pretas
realized another precipitous rush would only end up in the river. So the Rexy advanced with slow deliberation. I waited, equally stolid—I was sitting up now on the edge of the bank, legs slack in front of me but with my fists raised in what I hoped was a convincing ready-to-fight stance. If the predator tried to chomp my upper body, I'd fend it off as best I could.

But the Rexy (or the
pretas)
went for the easiest target: my legs. They were the closest body parts the Rexy could reach—limp and unmoving flesh, beyond the swing of my fists. Apparently helpless.

So my would-be killer took the bait.

The Rexy firmly, deliberately, clamped its teeth into my left leg, right at the knee. Blood squirted; incisors scraped bone. The bite was so crushing, one of the Rexy's teeth broke off from the force—deep, deep, the animal getting an unbreakable grip in preparation for shaking its head and ripping the leg clean off. I waited till the bite was irrevocably committed... then I pushed myself backward and off the cliff.

I don't know if the Rexy was capable of letting go; its teeth were so solidly embedded in my flesh, it might not have been able to release me even if it wanted to. But it didn't want to—its aura showed nothing but determination to hold on, no matter what. Which is why, when I started to fall over the edge of the cliff, the Rexy came with me all the way. Its birdlike weight was far too light to hold me back, and its feet had no purchase on the slick muddy ground. Together, the Rexy and I tumbled over the bank. After a deceptively quiet moment of free fall, we smacked down into the flood.

Deep water, deeply chilled. The momentum of my backward cannonball dive plunged me more than a meter below the surface... but the featherweight Rexy, still fastened to my leg, had the buoyancy of a life preserver. He rose fast and pulled me with him, the two of us bobbing into rainy air that was almost as cold and wet as the river.

I expected the Rexy to splutter with panic at its sudden immersion. It didn't. Maybe the
pretas
suppressed all fear reactions. More likely the animal was so focused on taking a chunk out of me, it didn't have the brainpower to think about anything else. It bit down; it shook its head hard, as violently as the water allowed; and after a moment of thrashing, my leg came off at the knee, as easily as pulling the plug in a bathtub.

Immediately, the Rexy and my detached limb began to drift away in the torrent. I swam a few strokes to increase the distance between us. The animal continued to chew on the bloody stump as it disappeared into darkness; my sixth sense told me the Rexy avoided swallowing my putrid-tasting meat, but gnawed and gnawed and gnawed until the bones were ground into mash.

Through all this, I felt no pain. Nanomesh fabric closed seamlessly around the jagged remains of my knee. Then the Balrog, concealed by the uniform, closed off my spurting blood vessels, tidied up the bone ends, and pulled the remaining flaps of my skin to make a smooth outer seal—better than the work of any Technocracy surgeon.

I'd expected no less. The spores had proved they could repair other kinds of damage to my anatomy; why shouldn't they handle an amputation? And I trusted them to save me from other threats too... like hypothermia, now that I was drifting helplessly in heart-chilling water, with no more protection than a sodden skintight uniform. Perhaps the Balrog wasn't legally
compelled
to help me survive; I'd thrown myself into the river of my own free will, knowing quite well that humans often died of exposure under similar conditions. If the Balrog let me freeze to death, the League of Peoples wouldn't object. Superior lifeforms can't be held responsible if a lesser being takes suicidal risks.

But the Balrog would save me anyway. Not to preserve its good standing with the League of Peoples. Not because I might still be necessary to its plans. It would save me because it was not a callous creature.

I saw that now. The Balrog was no villain. In fact, it was deeply compassionate... in its inhuman way.

Everything the Balrog had done to me—
for
me—had been a gift... at least from the moss's alien viewpoint. It believed it was improving me: making me less human and more like a "civilized" species. If the process scared and dismayed me, that might be cause for pity but not for backing off. When you take a beloved cat to the veterinarian, the animal may struggle and yowl; but you know you're acting in the cat's best interests, so you don't let yourself give in.

"This is for your own good, Fluffy."

This is for your own good, Youn Suu.

The Balrog believed it was doing me a favor: infesting my body, infiltrating my mind. If I didn't appreciate the favor... well, every pet owner has to deal with that look of accusation when Fluffy thinks she's been betrayed. Lesser creatures can't always understand when they should show gratitude.

Did
I
feel gratitude? No. But I felt acceptance. I put myself at the Balrog's mercy, letting it do whatever it saw fit.

Perhaps I'd be saved from hypothermia by having all my skin replaced with moss: an insulating layer of fuzz that would hold in my body heat, but make me look like landscaping. Was that so bad? With my cheek, I'd never looked entirely human. Wasn't I used to that by now? Why should I be dismayed by a new outward appearance?

I didn't regret what I'd done, no matter the price I paid. I'd removed the final two Rexies from the picture; I'd even done it humanely, so they'd both survive. My long-distance perceptions showed no other Rexies near enough to cause trouble. Festina could reach the Stage Two station without further risk.

She wouldn't press on immediately. With Li and Ubatu in tow, she'd return to the spot where she'd left me; she'd find my dragging trail through the thorns and follow it to the river; she'd see Rexy tracks in the mud and the spot where the hank crumbled when the Rexy and I went over the edge. Festina's Bumbler would pick up traces of my spilled blood... but by the time she used the machine to scan the water I'd be far downstream, out of the Bumbler's viewing range.

Eventually, she'd realize there was nothing she could do. She'd set off toward the station, probably sticking close to the river and using the Bumbler from time to time to see if I'd washed up onshore.

Tut would head in the same direction—hunched over like a bear, stopping occasionally to dance, roll in the mud, or kill some poor lizard and eat it raw—but he'd make his way to the station too. He had nowhere else to go. He certainly wouldn't go back to Drill-Press: there was nothing to interest him there. And if he just wanted to wander through the wilderness, curiosity would turn his steps toward the station; even if Tut had gone feral, he wouldn't find much entertainment in a wasteland of ferns. The station was the only nearby location where something extraordinary might happen.

Pretas
continued to drift around him, trying to insinuate themselves into his brain. Tut's life force fought back as it had before: with a swirl of evasive lunacy, impossible for the clouds to control. If ever they came close to conquest, a flash of mental purple beat them back. I couldn't identify what the purple was—maybe some core of sanity within his madness—but it held the
pretas
at bay. They contented themselves with merely nudging him forward, guiding him to keep pace with Festina and the diplomats. Later, they might make an all-out attempt to turn Tut into their absolute puppet. For the moment, however, they only needed that he stay close enough to be available if they decided to use him.

So we all proceeded south: Tut through the bush... Festina, Li, and Ubatu along the shore... me on the current in the river's deepest channel. I had no trouble keeping my head above the flood—partly turned to moss and missing half a leg, I was light enough to float high in the water. And unlike rivers back home on Anicca, the Grindstone had no snags where I might get caught: Muta was millions of years away from having trees, and therefore millions of years from having significant deadfalls blocking the stream. If a tree-sized fern fell into the river, it would rot so much faster than conventional wood, there wouldn't be time for obstructions to form.