Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [93]
Rhiannon put her hands on the glass, wanting very badly to touch the beast’s familiar solid bulk and speak to it as she used to.
They exchanged a somber glance. Rhiannon was sure he knew this would be the last time they would see each other.
A hovercraft flew by outside, then swung around, its searchlight projecting a white disc that slid along the wet sides of the buildings.
The light swept closer and closer.
Suddenly the haguya moved its great wings and took flight, just before the searchlight hit the window.
Rhiannon stood by the window for the remainder of the night, but the haguya never returned.
As soon as the gray, drizzly dawn came, a troop of CS men led by Crichton marched down the corridors in highest alert mode. The hum of their hundred fully charged weapons filled the air. One-eyes kept pace with them, an integral part of the troop.
The troop had rolling along with them a special wave propagator; it would prevent anyone from using a transporter to escape. No chances were being taken.
One by one, the CS took the two dozen Dissenters from their cells. Rhiannon, Gunabibi, and Coyote were the last three to be inducted into the death march.
Coyote sang a song in an Indian dialect as he was hauled from his cell. The white-haired old man continued to sing as the troop pushed him forward. The push wasn’t necessary; he walked proudly, with the gait of a young man.
Crichton called the group to a halt.
“What is he singing?” the director asked the officer next to him.
The officer was young Daley, survivor of the infamous cave ambush. In the absence of Ferris, Daley was now Crichton’s right-hand man.
A one-eye moved in front of Coyote and began to scan his brain waves. Daley listened to his headphones to hear what the one-eye would be able to tell him about Coyote’s singing.
“The one-eye doesn’t know the language,” he said finally. “Apparently this singing went on continuously all last night, and the one-eyes couldn’t make a thing out of it.”
Crichton went up to Coyote.
“Shut up, damn it!” he yelled in Coyote’s face. Coyote closed his eyes. He kept on singing. “Use the truth serum on him,” said Crichton.
Daley produced his chemical warfare kit and prepared the squeeze bottles.
Coyote opened his eyes to narrow sight-slits and stole a look at Crichton’s wristwatch.
Then he stopped singing and smiled.
“The one-eye’s picking something up now,” said Daley, pausing as the information was relayed over his headset.
“He apparently … inserted some criminal material, some pages, into the outgoing mail last night. He tricked an orderly into helping him. Proper postage and everything. A lot of different envelopes going to different places.”
Crichton looked at his watch.
“Thank you, that’s exactly right,” said Coyote. “They will have been delivered by now, to random addresses. Pages from the stories of Gunabibi, Lomov, Rhiannon, Odysseus, of all of us.”
Daley listened to his headphones. “The one-eyes are picking up more. They say he snuck the pages into CephCom on his person. Didn’t even tell the other Dissenters about it. Thought about them only in an unknown language he calls Miwok.”
Crichton continued to look at his watch, as he thought through the implications.
Coyote tried to hold back, but a laugh forced its way out and grew into a guffaw.
Crichton spoke with an arctic voice.
“An exercise in futility. The one-eyes will find every single person you so cruelly exposed to the Allpox. All of them will be cleansed or blanked. All the pages will be destroyed.”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Coyote. “Seems likely you might have a few more Dissenters on your hands before this is through.”
“That may be. But the worst ones will have been executed.”
Crichton spoke curt orders into his headset that would set into motion a search for the pages. Then he started the procession moving again.
He felt as though he’d just been pushed off a cliff. He’d been poised on it, teetering