Expendable - James Alan Gardner [122]
“That was a shabby trick, Ramos,” he complained. “Running out on me like that.” With a look of wounded dignity, he grabbed the free end of his artificial arm and clapped it into the receptor housing that Fleet surgeons had hollowed into his shoulder. A few hearty thumps hammered the connector jacks into place. “You make me feel unloved,” he said as he flexed the prosthetic fingers experimentally. “You have something against amputees?”
I sighed with relief. He was only irritated, not angry. For all his faults, Tobit was a true Explorer—not like Jelca, overreacting to tiny slights.
“You were busy with your friends,” I answered lightly. “It would have been rude to interrupt the party.” I glanced at the eagle’s cockpit. “You didn’t bring anyone with you?”
“There was room for only one Morlock, and I didn’t want to pick favorites.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand: his artificial one, which now seemed fully functional. “To tell the truth, they were such pathetic sots I didn’t have a favorite. Except you, of course, Ramos.” He threw a smacking kiss in my direction. “You’re looking good.”
“If one more person says that to me, I’ll rip the damned skin off.”
“Don’t rip off your cheek to spite your face.” He gestured toward Oar. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
“Jelca shot her.”
Tobit’s eyebrows raised.
“It’s a long story,” I said, “and I don’t have time to tell it. Do those missiles of yours work?”
“Yes. No thanks to you.” He looked at me warily. “Are you thinking of blasting Jelca?”
“No. I’m thinking of blasting a door.”
The Blast Radius
Neither Tobit nor I could guess how much damage the missile might do. We didn’t even know what payload it contained. Chemical? Nuclear? Matter-antimatter disintegration? “Phylar,” I said, “before you mount weapons on a plane, shouldn’t you find out how much bang they have? It might help to know whether you should keep back a hundred meters from your target or a hundred kilometers.”
Tobit scowled. “I never intended to use the bombs, Ramos; I just wanted them there for completeness.”
“Completeness,” I repeated.
“I liked the look of them; besides, flying an eagle is so damned gauche, I needed something to make me look less precious. As soon as I figured out how to command the AI, I had the missiles reactivated and put back.”
“So you armed the plane as a fashion statement?”
“Stop bitching, Ramos. You’re the one who wants to blow up a mountain.”
Difficult though it was, we loaded Oar into the eagle with us, sitting her up on my lap like a limp heap of laundry. She wouldn’t be safe on the ground; there was no way to gauge the blast radius. Anyway, if the missile was nuclear or worse, she’d have to be dozens of klicks away to avoid damage, and we couldn’t carry her that far on foot. Better to have her with us, and simply order the plane to remove itself an adequate distance from the explosion.
Before boarding the plane, Tobit got a fistful of dirt and smeared a huge brown X on the outcrop that hid the elevator door. The mark would be easy to see at a distance of at least five kilometers. Hitting the mark was another matter—we had no idea what guidance mechanisms the missiles had. Since the eagle possessed no controls, all we could do was say, “Shoot that,” and let the plane do all the aiming.
Oar and I perched in the right-hand seat, strapped down as best I could manage. Tobit climbed in beside us and stuffed his head into his tightsuit helmet. “Why are you wearing that?” I asked.
“So I don’t get blinded by the sun,” he replied.
I looked dubious. The helmet’s visor was clear, evidence that the overcast sky was no danger to anyone’s eyes. If there had been any excess brightness, the visor would have automatically tinted itself.