In Wolverine Six, behind the sealed hatch, something stirred in the darkness. From near the shuttle's communication panel, a shape humped itself painfully forward. The armored space suit Shasti had thrown to the deck in disgust rose from where she left it. It crawled slowly, seemingly with great effort, to the hatchway. Once there, it became mostly erect, propped against the hatch. It plopped its mass against the hatch several times, as if trying to pass through the obstinate metal. A slight electrical smell wafted through the fetid air along with the crackle of a tiny discharge.
The door remained sealed. Even Mmok’s guardian angels did not hear the slight sound the suit made in the dead ship. The faceplate of the suit pressed against the porthole. It could not be seen against the shuttle’s darkened exterior. Then, as if exhausted by the effort, it dropped to the deck like a puppet with cut strings. Utter stillness returned to Earhart’s dead shuttle.
*****
They lifted from the site of the Confed shuttles and their slaughtered crews, leaving the impending storm behind. Fenaday looked down on the shuttles sitting in the defensive triangle and shook his head. He turned to the pilot, Angelica Fury.
“Keep Pooka in lead, triangular formation,” he said. “Maintain an economical cruising speed.”
“Aye, sir, four hundred knots it is.”
“Why so slow, Captain?” Duna asked, “Aren’t these Dakotas marginally supersonic?”
“Yes,” Fenaday replied. “We have fuel-efficient reactor-based drives, but their range isn’t infinite. The more propellant we use, the more often we have to either shuttle up or send the fighters down with tanks.”
“Of course, Captain,” Duna said. “Foolish of me to ask.”
“Relax,” Fenaday said kindly. “We’ll be there in a few hours.”
From the deck of the Pooka, Fenaday and the others watched the farmlands roll beneath them. Brilliant yellow crops topped with growths of swaying rusty orange filled the miles in a scene reminiscent of the American Midwest. Dark-hued trees looking like Terran pines but studded with white flowers marked the edges of the fields. Occasionally, the spacers saw farmhouses. Most were of the domed variety the Enshari favored, painted in light cream and beige. Duna pointed out some of an older style. Small hillocks of natural dirt, poured over a modern construction, these resembled the early dens of Enshari farmers.
Other, less pleasant sights presented themselves: crashed aircraft of various types, cars and trucks that had run off roads. The shuttles flew over a wrecked Maglev train, its cars flung about as if by a maddened child.
The contrast between the pleasant countryside and the devastation became too much for Duna. “My poor people,” he mourned. “What force is it that hates us so?” His small hands covered his expressive brown eyes. Telisan put a hand on Duna’s shoulder, his golden, leathery face marked by concern. Shasti looked out of the canopy, uncomfortable. Fenaday, who had lost a home and family, felt a pang of sympathy for the Enshar.
“While we are still alive, there is hope,” Telisan said.
“Hope is a thin meal,” Duna replied, uncovering his eyes.
For the first time, Fenaday drew a sense of age from the Enshar. Duna always seemed energetic. It was hard to believe the little alien had lived for eight hundred years. Now Duna looked every one of those years, old and tired. For some reason, it frightened Fenaday. He wished desperately for something comforting to say but could think of nothing that did not seem trite in light of the tragedy.
Li, one of Shasti’s trouble squad, came up with a cup of hot tea. Shasti assigned Li as a bodyguard to Duna. Duna looked up at the tea and the concern on Li’s hard-bitten face. The scholar took the tea and bowed his head against the cup twice in an Enshari gesture of respect and thanks. Li bowed gracefully from the waist.
Fenaday shook his head. Li, like most of his crew, had never shown a sign of giving a damn about anyone. Somehow Duna seemed to bring out the best in people.
Li caught his look. “I learned it from the old movies,” he said. “I grew up in Stockholm.”
There was a brief laugh from the humans, even Mmok. Duna and Telisan looked puzzled. Telisan made the Denlenn equivalent of a shrug, a gesture Fenaday had learned meant, “Aliens, who can understand them?”
People settled in. Mmok, Rigg, Rask and some of the other troopers folded down enough of the seats to play cards. Some talked, cleaned weapons, or slept. Fenaday and Shasti stayed by the canopy