The Murdered Sun - Christie Golden [86]
"They're in here," Miweni said excitedly. "But how to open the door?
Should we fire upon it?"
Paris glanced at the door, recognizing the symbol on the keypad with a jolt. He shook his head. "The guard," he panted, "the key. It should be a chunk of metal that will fit right in the door."
One of the pilots knelt beside the fallen body of the guard, his long fingers in their protective gloves patting him down quickly and efficiently. He located the key and with a flourish of triumph showed it to Paris for a nod of confirmation before inserting it into the door.
There was a click, and a light flashed on. The Verunans put their shoulders to the door and pushed. The door swung open.
Seventeen Verunans, most still in their envirosuits, stared back at them with suspicious eyes that grew even wider when they caught sight of Paris. They gasped and huddled back, no doubt thinking that this was some new variety of Akerian, come to exact dreadful retribution for some nonexistent trespass. Then one of them recognized Miweni.
"Miweni! My mate!" And the female Verunan, weeping freely, ran into the arms of her beloved. Excited chatter broke out, but Paris cut it short.
"We have ships waiting for you," he explained, "but we've got to get going. Those of you still in your envirosuits, stay in them.
The rest of you, I've got emergency transport. How many of you can walk?"
Fourteen Verunans, all in their suits, indicated that they could move unassisted.
"Then go. The three of you"--he gestured to Miweni and two others--"go with them. Keep an eye out for more guards; we don't know who's been alerted to our arrival. You two, give me a hand with the injured.
Don't forget to pick up the rest of the pilots; some are injured back there." It was an unnecessary statement, and he knew it, but he had to say it just to make sure.
The seventeen former slaves and their escorts took off. A few moments later Paris heard firing. "Damn," he swore. He didn't know if the sound was from the guards outside coming in or new arrivals. He hoped it was the former.
He placed his phaser rifle down and began searching for the ETC's he carried, hampered by his dead hand. The pilots had gone to their ill and injured friends, offering reassuring words. Paris felt his heart twist in sympathy. The Akerians were not good masters. The Verunans were thin, their long ribs showing clearly through their soft, furry pelts. The three not in their envirosuits were clearly unfit for work: one had an injured leg that had at least been treated. The others were sick, their usually clear and lovely amber eyes rheumy and tired.
Their breathing was labored, and one of them lay on the floor, barely breathing. Only its eyes, wide and alive, showed that it was cognizant of its surroundings.
"These are emergency transport carriers," Paris explained, grappling awkwardly with his one good hand. One of the three pilots who still remained quickly moved to his side to assist him. Paris smiled his thanks. "They're sort of emergency envirosuits. Place the injured in these, seal them up, and the bag acts as a protective environment."
He talked his friends through it, and the injured Verunans did what they could to assist. Mostly, though, the best they could do was sit and be passively lifted into the ETC's. Paris saw the curiosity, the gratitude, and the still-lingering traces of fear on their faces as the bags were sealed. They did not know him, had never even seen his species before. It was a huge gesture of trust.
At last the three of them were safely in the ETC's. The pain in Paris's arm was not subsiding, and it threatened to break his concentration. He willed the agony back, forced his head to clear. He had no doubt but that the Verunans would