Expendable - James Alan Gardner [54]
The Admiralty loved toys—people in positions of undeserved power always do. And since the Admiralty loved toys, the High Council allocated generous funds to the development of Explorer equipment. Not that the council gave a damn about Explorers themselves; but the demands of Exploration raised fertile engineering challenges that the research department found irresistible. As a result, ECMs were truly equipped to handle almost anything…like trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again after an emergency evac blew him to bits.
Three vials in the pouch contained solvents. The other three contained fixative.
With work, I could glue the tightsuit patches into a usable garment—not as strong as the original, but better than spending the rest of my life in my underwear. Creative tailoring might even give this new suit advantages over the old; I could, for example, remodel the pants to make walking easier. Blimp-shaped thighs might be best for maintaining positive pressure against incoming germs, but now that I’d been exposed to Melaquin’s air…
I didn’t want to think about that. Concentrate on being a seamstress.
First, the top—that was easy. The breastplate and back had come off as single pieces, simple to fit back together. With the torso reassembled, attaching the arms was no worse than gluing together strips of banana peel. The result was as bulky as a stiff cable-knit sweater, and had the same degree of blessed warmth. There were too many seams now to match the original suit’s insulation to forty degrees below zero; but that didn’t stop me from diving into the garment as soon as it was done, or shuddering with bliss as my gooseflesh started to recede.
The bottom part was more difficult. The basic delta of the crotch hadn’t been damaged, but the individual pouches of the belt had blown away separately. Putting them back together used up most of my chemicals, because I wanted an arrangement that would fit my real waist, not the bulbous girth of the original suit. After much trial and error, I jury-rigged a two-tiered pattern that worked well enough; but that left me low on solvent and fixative, too low for constructing pantlegs. The path of least resistance was to glue my remaining scraps to the foundation of the crotch, building a skirt from a spiral patchwork of cloth until I exhausted my supply of adhesive. The result came just to my knee—higher than I liked with winter coming on, but I had flared the skirt wide to give my legs freedom of movement. Cold knees were one thing; not being able to deliver a good side kick was something else.
I had fabric left over when I ran out of glue, plus a lot of spare gadgetry—air tanks, pressure pump, life-sign monitors, etc. They could stay on the sand where they were; I doubted I’d need them again. Carting them around the countryside would just waste energy…unless, of course, Jelca could strip them down and use the parts for something.
Jelca. Jelca was here on Melaquin.
I might have thought about that for a long time if Oar’s boat hadn’t appeared again.
The Scalpel
Chee’s body was no longer sprawled on the boat…and when the glass lid opened, Oar was gone too. The boat stood empty on the sand like a plundered sarcophagus. I could almost feel it waiting: waiting for me to get in so it could carry me away. It must have come back to take me to Oar’s home—an underwater habitat like the ones on Attulpac, or perhaps something subterranean…a hidden place, undetectable from orbit.
Did I want to board a glass coffin and ride off into dark water?
Yarrun was dead. The admiral was dead. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a reason to move forward or back. Then reflex took over and I found myself packing things into the boat.
Always do the next necessary thing.
The Bumbler had to go, of course…and Chee’s backpack, which I’d removed before sending him off forever. I’d also have to retrieve my own pack, still lying amidst the daisies on top of the bluffs. Oar would