Part 5 (2/2)

Narus added, ”The humans sustain themselves by consuming the local fauna. Perhaps there is a biological solution to our dilemma as well. Symbiosis, perhaps, rather than consumption.”

”Doubtful,” Sedin said. ”Except for trace molecules, we crossed the barrier from organic to synthetic aeons ago. It may not be possible to backtrack on the path of our evolution.”

”Even if it was possible,” Ghyllac said, ”we would need a sentient life-form with which to bond, to guarantee sufficient neuroelectric activity to power our catoms. Such a fusion would be a delicate and dangerous undertaking. If it is mishandled, it might debase us or turn our hosts into automatons-or both.”

Lerxst made it clear that his was to be the last word on the matter. ”We have neither the strength nor the facilities to perform the necessary research for such a task,” he said. ”If we wish to propose it to the humans, we will need to have the ability to pursue it, and that will entail consolidation. If that is the consensus of the gestalt, then we should resolve now which few will donate their energy for the sake of the others.”

The hesitation was brief. Dyrrem, Narus, and Yneth projected their intention to release their catoms' energy to the gestalt, condemning the last afterimages of their forms to chaos and expiration. Grat.i.tude and sorrow came back to them threefold from those they were about to preserve.

It was a swift transition. Three minds withdrew from the gestalt, which diminished in richness but grew in strength as power flowed through it, restoring form to its remaining members. Dyrrem, Narus, and Yneth were gone.

Sedin asked, ”Who will make our proposition to the humans?”

”I will,” Lerxst said.

Ever the cynic, Ghyllac asked, ”And if they refuse?”

Lerxst replied, ”Then we have just seen the fate that awaits us all.”

”Try bending it,” Graylock said, over an atonal howl of wind that fluttered and snapped the fabric of the shelter's walls.

Kiona Thayer flexed her ankle backward and forward in slow, stiff movements. ”It's still fighting me,” she said, nodding at the motor-a.s.sist brace Graylock had fas.h.i.+oned to enable her to walk normally.

”I think it's just the cold,” Graylock said. ”Gumming up the lubricant. It'll be fine once it's been moving for a while.” He nodded toward the glowing rock in the middle of the enclosure. ”Keep it close to the heat, and we'll try it again in an hour.”

The weight of snow on top of the shelter had caused an unsupported section to droop inward. Graylock ducked under it as he circled around the heated rock to look over Private Steinhauer's shoulder. The young German man worked with pale, calloused hands, twisting together lengths of separated wood fiber that had been soaked in hot water until they had become flexible enough to manipulate. Woven together into a tight grid, the fibers formed the walking surface of handmade snowshoes.

”Those are looking good, Thom,” Graylock said.

Steinhauer shrugged. ”They're all right.”

”How many pairs do you have finished?”

The private leaned forward and pulled open a folded blanket that protected his finished work. ”Two and a half pairs,” he said. Holding up the unfinished, teardrop-shaped shoe frame in his hands, he added, ”This will make three.”

”Good, good,” Graylock said with a satisfied nod.

He continued around the shelter's perimeter and kneeled beside Crichlow, who lay almost on top of the heated rock. The young Liverpudlian was swaddled in blankets, sweating profusely, and s.h.i.+vering with enough force that he seemed to be suffering a seizure. Graylock removed the damp but fever-warmed cloth from Crichlow's forehead and used it to mop some of the sweat from the sick man's face and throat. Wringing it out over the dirt near the hot stone, he asked his patient, ”Do you prefer it hot or cold, Eric?”

”Cold,” Crichlow said through chattering teeth.

Graylock stepped over to a bowl set near the outer wall. He used a tin cup beside it to scoop out a small amount of cold water and pour it with care over the cloth. Then he brought the cloth back to Crichlow, folded it in thirds, and set it gently across the man's forehead. ”Feel better,” he said to him.

As much as he was tempted to crawl inside his own bedroll and retreat into slumber, Graylock knew when he checked his chrono that sleep would have to wait. He pulled extra layers of Caeliar-made fabric over himself, and he was careful to wrap his face, cover his nose and mouth, and s.h.i.+eld his eyes with lightweight goggles he'd borrowed from Crichlow. Before he parted the overlapping folds of the shelter's entrance, he warned the others, ”Bundle up, everyone. I'm heading out.” When the others had draped themselves under covers, he made his exit.

Stepping outside had become an act requiring great willpower. In the fortnight since Mazzetti had been killed, the days had grown noticeably shorter on daylight, and the average temperature had gone from the kind of cold that could give someone frostbite to the kind that could kill a careless person in a matter of minutes.

Graylock watched his breath condense in front of him, filtered through three layers of fabric. Underneath his scarves, the moisture collected on his skin and chilled instantly, making his face feel clammy. He followed a narrow path that Steinhauer and Pembleton had excavated from the hip-deep snow that surrounded their camp. The footing was slick and icy, and the fact that he was trudging uphill to the lookout position made the short trip all the more difficult.

At the top of the rise, Pembleton paced in a circle around a stand of tall boulders. From there, in clear weather, a sentry could see anything that might approach within seventy to eighty meters of the shelter. Even at night, with only starlight for illumination, it was possible for one's eyes to adjust and pierce the darkness to keep watch for predators.

The sergeant nodded to Graylock as they met at the mound's peak. ”Evening, Lieutenant,” Pembleton said.

”I'm here to relieve you, Sergeant.”

Pembleton replied, ”I wanted Steinhauer to cover Crichlow's s.h.i.+ft, sir.”

”Too bad,” Graylock said. ”Steinhauer's making good progress on those snowshoes. I want him to rest and keep working. The sooner we have five pairs of shoes, the sooner we can move out.”

Nodding, Pembleton said, ”I understand, sir. But you're in command-we need to keep you safe in the shelter. Let me take the late watch.”

”You've stood two watches today already,” Graylock said. ”It's a wonder you aren't frozen solid. Go inside. I can spot motion and shoot a rifle as well as anyone.”

A larger-than-usual plume of breath betrayed Pembleton's frustrated sigh. ”Yes, sir,” he said. He removed the rifle that was slung over his shoulder and handed it to Graylock. ”How's Crichlow doing?”

”Worse,” Graylock said. ”I don't know if it's a medical issue, like a congenital disease, or a virus or a parasite.”

Pembleton asked, ”Can't the hand scanner tell you that?”

It was Graylock's turn to sigh, this time in dismay. ”The power cell ran out this morning.”

”Can we transfer power from one of the rifles?”

Graylock shrugged. ”Not efficiently, and most of the rifles are getting low, too. A few more weeks, and we're unarmed.” He looked up at the alpine peaks high above them. ”Unless we want to make another trip up Junk Mountain and ask the Caeliar for more batteries.”

”And risk running into our friends with the fangs and claws again? No, thank you.” Pembleton leaned sideways and looked past Graylock, surveying the rolling, snow-covered landscape that ringed the mountain's base. ”Besides, I think the mountain's coming to us.” He pointed, and Graylock turned his head.

A single Caeliar moved quickly toward them, its wide, three-toed feet bounding over the fresh-fallen snow without leaving so much as a mark. The alien's pale, mottled skin seemed made to catch the weak starlight. Its bulbous cranium and long, stretched-frown visage became distinct as it drew within a dozen meters of the sentries' peak.

Pembleton asked Graylock with politic courtesy, ”Are you planning on challenging it, sir?”

Chastened, Graylock lifted the phase rifle, aimed it at the Caeliar, and shouted, ”Halt! Identify yourself!”

The Caeliar stopped moving a few meters away. Its ridged air sacs puffed and deflated with the deep motions of respiration. ”Karl, it is Lerxst.”

Graylock demanded, ”What do you want?”

”To talk with your people, Karl-all of them. I am not exaggerating when I say that our lives may depend on it.”

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