Part 8 (1/2)

”Mr. Irizarry,” she said, unfolding her arms long enough to stick one hand out in a facsimile of a congenial greeting.

He held up a hand in response, relieved to see no sign of recognition in her face. It was Irizarry's experience that dead lives were best left lie where they fell. ”Sorry, Station Master,” he said. ”I can't.”

He thought of asking her about the reek of toves on the air, if she understood just how bad the situation had become. People could convince themselves of a lot of bulls.h.i.+t, given half a chance.

Instead, he decided to talk about his partner. ”Mongoose hates it when I touch other people. She gets jealous, like a parrot.”

”The ches.h.i.+re's here?” She let her hand drop to her side, the expression on her face a mixture of respect and alarm. ”Is it out of phase?”

Well, at least Station Master Lee knew a little more about ches.h.i.+re-cats than most people. ”No,” Irizarry said. ”She's down my s.h.i.+rt.”

Half a standard hour later, wading through the damp bowels of a ventilation pore, Irizarry tapped his rebreather to try to clear some of the tove-stench from his nostrils and mouth. It didn't help much; he was getting close.

Here, Mongoose wasn't shy at all. She slithered up on top of his head, barbels and graspers extended to full length, pulsing slowly in predatory greens and reds. Her tendrils slithered through his hair and coiled about his throat, fading in and out of phase. He placed his fingertips on her slick-resilient hide to restrain her. The last thing he needed was for Mongoose to go spectral and charge off down the corridor after the tove colony.

It wasn't that she wouldn't come back, because she would-but that was only if she didn't get herself into more trouble than she could get out of without his help. ”Steady,” he said, though of course she couldn't hear him. A creature adapted to vacuum had no ears. But she could feel his voice vibrate in his throat, and a tendril brushed his lips, feeling the puff of air and the shape of the word. He tapped her tendril twice again-soon-and felt it contract. She flashed hungry orange in his peripheral vision. She was experimenting with jaguar rosettes-they had had long discussions of jaguars and tigers after their nightly reading of Pooh on the Manfred von Richthofen, as Mongoose had wanted to know what jagulars and tiggers were. Irizarry had already taught her about mongooses, and he'd read Alice in Wonderland so she would know what a Ches.h.i.+re Cat was. Two days later-he still remembered it vividly-she had disappeared quite slowly, starting with the tips of the long coils of her tail and tendrils and ending with the needle-sharp crystalline array of her teeth. And then she'd phased back in, all excited aquamarine and pink, almost bouncing, and he'd praised her and stroked her and reminded himself not to think of her as a cat. Or a mongoose.

She had readily grasped the distinction between jaguars and jagulars, and had almost as quickly decided that she was a jagular; Irizarry had almost started to argue, but then thought better of it. She was, after all, a Very Good Dropper. And noever saw her coming unless she wanted them to.

When the faint glow of the toves came into view at the bottom of the pore, he felt her s.h.i.+ver all over, luxuriantly, before she s.h.i.+mmered dark and folded herself tight against his scalp. Irizarry doused his own lights as well, flipping the pa.s.sive infrared goggles down over his eyes. Toves were as blind as Mongoose was deaf, but an infestation this bad could mean the cracks were growing large enough for bigger things to wiggle through, and if there were raths, no sense in letting the monsters know he was coming.

He tapped the tendril curled around his throat three times, and whispered ”Go.” She didn't need him to tell her twice; really, he thought wryly, she didn't need him to tell her at all. He barely felt her featherweight disengage before she was gone down the corridor as silently as a hunting owl. She was invisible to his goggles, her at ambient temperature, but he knew from experience that her barbels and vanes would be spread wide, and he'd hear the shrieks when she came in among the toves.

The toves covered the corridor ceiling, arm-long carapaces adhered by a foul-smelling secretion that oozed from between the sections of their exoskeletons. The upper third of each tove's bent down like a dangling bough, bringing the glowing, sticky lure and flesh-ripping pincers into play. Irizarry had no idea what they fed on in their own phase, or dimension, or whatever.

Here, though, he knew what they ate. Anything they could get.

He kept his shock probe ready, splas.h.i.+ng after, to a.s.sist her if it turned out necessary. That was sure a lot of toves, and even a ches.h.i.+re-cat could get in trouble if she was outnumbered. Ahead of him, a tove warbled and went suddenly dark; Mongoose had made her first kill.

Within moments, the tove colony was in full warble, the harmonics making Irizarry's head ache. He moved forward carefully, alert now for signs of raths. The largest tove colony he'd ever seen was on the derelict steels.h.i.+p Jenny Lind, which he and Mongoose had explored when they were working salvage on the boojum Harriet Tubman. The hulk had been covered inside and out with toves; the colony was so vast that, having eaten everything else, it had started cannibalizing itself, toves eating their neighbors and being eaten in turn. Mongoose had glutted herself before the Harriet Tubman ate the wreckage, and in the refuse she left behind, Irizarry had found the strange starlike bones of an adult rath, consumed by its own prey. The banders.n.a.t.c.h that had killed the humans on the Jenny Lind had died with her reactor core and her captain. A handful of pa.s.sengers and crew had escaped to tell the tale.

He refocused. This colony wasn't as large as those heaving ma.s.ses on the Jenny Lind, but it was the largest he'd ever encountered not in a quarantine situation, and if there weren't raths somewhere on Kadath Station, he'd eat his infrared goggles.

A dead tove landed at his feet, its eyeless head neatly separated from its segmented body, and a heartbeat later Mongoose phased in on his shoulder and made her deep clicking noise that meant, Irizarry! Pay attention!

He held his hand out, raised to shoulder level, and Mongoose flowed between the two, keeping her bulk on his shoulder, with tendrils resting against his lips and larynx, but her tentacles wrapping around his hand to communicate. He pushed his goggles up with his free hand and switched on his belt light so he could read her colors.

She was anxious, strobing yellow and green. Many, she shaped against his palm, and then emphatically, R.

”R” was bad-it meant rath-but it was better than ”B.” If a banders.n.a.t.c.h had come through, all of them were walking dead, and Kadath Station was already as doomed as the Jenny Lind. ”Do you smell it?” he asked under the warbling of the toves.

Taste, said Mongoose, and because Irizarry had been her partner for almost five Solar, he understood: the toves tasted of rath, meaning that they had recently been feeding on rath guano, and given the swiftness of toves' digestive systems, that meant a rath was patrolling territory on the station.

Mongoose's grip tightened on his shoulder. R, she said again. R. R. R.

Irizarry's heart lurched and sank. More than one rath. The cracks were widening.

A banders.n.a.t.c.h was only a matter of time.

Station Master Lee didn't want to hear it. It was all there in the way she stood, the way she pretended distraction to avoid eye-contact. He knew the rules of this game, probably better than she did. He stepped into her personal s.p.a.ce. Mongoose s.h.i.+vered against the nape of his neck, her tendrils threading his hair. Even without being able to see her, he knew she was a deep, anxious emerald.

”A rath?” said Station Master Lee, with a toss of her head that might have looked flirtatious on a younger or less hostile woman, and moved away again. ”Don't be ridiculous. There hasn't been a rath on Kadath Station since my grandfather's time.”

”Doesn't mean there isn't an infestation now,” Irizarry said quietly. If she was going to be dramatic, that was his cue to stay still and calm. ”And I said raths. Plural.”

”That's even more ridiculous. Mr. Irizarry, if this is some ill-conceived attempt to drive up your price-”

”It isn't.” He was careful to say it flatly, not indignantly. ”Station Master, I understand that this isn't what you want to hear, but you have to quarantine Kadath.”

”Can't be done,” she said, her tone brisk and flat, as if he'd asked her to pilot Kadath through the rings of Saturn.

”Of course it can!” Irizarry said, and she finally turned to look at him, outraged that he dared to contradict her. Against his neck, Mongoose flexed one set of claws. She didn't like it when he was angry.

Mostly, that wasn't a problem. Mostly, Irizarry knew anger was a waste of time and energy. It didn't solve anything. It didn't fix anything. It couldn't bring back anything that was lost. People, lives. The sorts of things that got washed away in the tides of time. Or were purged, whether you wanted them gone or not.

But this was... ”You do know what a colony of adult raths can do, don't you? With a contained population of prey? Tell me, Station Master, have you started noticing fewer indigents in the shelters?”

She turned away again, dismissing his existence from her cosmology. ”The matter is not open for discussion, Mr. Irizarry. I hired you to deal with an alleged infestation. I expect you to do so. If you feel you can't, you are of course welcome to leave the station with whatever s.h.i.+p takes your fancy. I believe the Arthur Gordon Pym is headed in-system, or perhaps you'd prefer the Jupiter run?”

He didn't have to win this fight, he reminded himself. He could walk away, try to warn someelse, get himself and Mongoose the h.e.l.l off Kadath Station. ”All right, Station Master. But remember that I warned you, when your secretaries start disappearing.”

He was at the door when she cried, ”Irizarry!”

He stopped, but didn't turn.

”I can't,” she said, low and rushed, as if she was afraid of being overheard. ”I can't quarantine the station. Our numbers are already in the red this quarter, and the new political officer... it's my head on the block, don't you understand?”

He didn't understand. Didn't want to. It was one of the reasons he was a wayfarer, because he never wanted to let himself be like her again.

”If Sanderson finds out about the quarantine, she finds out about you. Will your papers stand up to a close inspection, Mr. Irizarry?”

He wheeled, mouth open to tell her what he thought of her and her clumsy attempts at blackmail, and she said, ”I'll double your fee.”

At the same time, Mongoose tugged on several strands of his hair, and he realized he could feel her heart beating, hard and rapid, against his spine. It was her distress he answered, not the Station Master's bribe. ”All right,” he said. ”I'll do the best I can.”

Toves and raths colonized like an epidemic, outward from a single originating point, Patient Zero in this case being the tear in s.p.a.cetime that the first tove had wriggled through. More tears would develop as the toves multiplied, but it was that first one that would become large enough for a rath. While toves were simply lazy-energy efficient, the Arkhamers said primly-and never crawled farther than was necessary to find a useable anchoring point, raths were cautious. Their marauding was centered on the original tear because they kept their escape route open. And tore it wider and wider.

Toves weren't the problem, although they were a nuisance, with their tendency to use up valuable oxygen, clog ductwork, eat pets, drip goo from ceilings, and crunch wetly when you stepped on them. Raths were worse; raths were vicious predators. Their natural prey might be toves, but they didn't draw the line at disappearing weakened humans or small gillies, either.

But even they weren't the danger that had made it hard for Irizarry to sleep the past two rest s.h.i.+fts. What toves tore and raths widened was an access for the apex predator of this alien food chain.

The banders.n.a.t.c.h: Pseudocanis tindalosi. The old records and the indigent Arkhamers called them hounds, but of course they weren't, any more than Mongoose was a cat. Irizarry had seen archive video from derelict stations and s.h.i.+ps, the banders.n.a.t.c.h's flickering angular limbs appearing like spiked mantis arms from the corners of sealed rooms, the carnage that ensued. He'd never heard of anyone left alive on a station where a banders.n.a.t.c.h manifested, unless they made it to a panic pod d.a.m.ned fast. More importantly, even the Arkhamers in their archive-s.h.i.+ps, breeders of Mongoose and all her kind, admitted they had no records of anyone surviving a banders.n.a.t.c.h rather than escaping it.

And what he had to do, loosely put, was find the core of the infestation before the banders.n.a.t.c.hes did, so that he could eradicate the toves and raths and the stress they were putting on this little corner of the universe. Find the core-somewhere in the miles upon miles of Kadath's infrastructure. Which was why he was in this little-used service corridor, letting Mongoose commune with every ventilation duct they found.

Anywhere near the access shafts infested by the colony, Kadath Station's pa.s.sages reeked of tove-ammoniac, sulfurous. The stench infiltrated the edges of Irizarry's mask as he lifted his face to a ventilation duct. Wincing in antic.i.p.ation, he broke the seal on the rebreather and pulled it away from his face on the stiff elastic straps, careful not to lose his grip. A broken nose would not improve his day.

A cultist engineer skittered past on sucker-tipped limbs, her four snake-arms coiled tight beside her for the narrow corridor. She had a pretty smile, for a Christian.

Mongoose was too intent on her prey to be shy. The size of the tove colony might make her nervous, but Mongoose loved the smell-like a good dinner heating, Irizarry imagined. She unfolded herself around his head like a tendriled hood, tentacles outreached, flaring as she stretched towards the ventilation fan. He felt her lean, her barbels s.h.i.+vering, and turned to face the way her wedge-shaped head twisted.