wedges from outside the purpleness
of the translation tube. He sensed another of the amber-green squares, but
decided against trying that. He didn’t want another encounter with the
ancients.
Then,
through the flashing green beams and the darkness that alternated with
momentary green brilliance, he began to make out the locator wedges except
they were more like cylinders, as if a triangle had been rolled so that the
vertex touched the base. That wasn’t quite it, because each side of the wedge
had been rolled, yet there was only one cylinder.
Dainyl
shook off his bemusement, and Talent-reached for the cylinder wedge that he
hoped was Elcien, and he found himself back in the purpled translation tube
with the whiteness of Elcien speeding toward him.
Passing
through the white-silver barrier was like passing through a mist of tiny unseen
knives.
He
stood on the Table, throwing up his shields full barely before the bluish
beams of lightcutters flashed across him.
“Stop!
It’s the marshal.”
Dainyl
waited, then stepped off the Table.
“I’m
so sorry, Marshal. I’m so sorry, sir,” babbled the recorder. “It’s just that
we’ve had wild translation after wild translation for the past half glass. We
lost one guard already.”
Dainyl
sensed both the truth of Chastyl’s words, and his sincere regret.
“You’ve
got some of that Talent-green on you ... like all the wild translations did,”
the recorder added.
“That’s
from the ancient weapon the rebels used on me. It will take a while to wear
off,” Dainyl explained. He had grave doubts that was the full explanation, but
it was easier and more appropriate for the moment. “I need to get back to
headquarters.”
He
also needed time that he was running short of to sort matters out, if he
could.
Chapter 12
In
the darkness just after twilight, Mykel and Rhystan sat at the single long
table in the small room that was the officers’ mess in the new compound or
would be. The single bronze wall lamp cast but a haze of light that scarcely
reached the end of the table and the two officers.
“I
have to say that it’s good to sleep on a real bunk again,” offered Rhystan.
“How long that will last...” He shrugged and looked at Mykel. “Have you heard
from the colonel?”
“Not
a thing, but I’d judge he only got my report within the last day or so and
that’s no guarantee that he’s read it.”
“You’ve
got a feel for these sorts of things. How long do you think we’ll be staying
here?” Rhystan took a last sip from the beaker of ale he had been nursing
along.
“I
don’t see us being sent off until the alectors return to their compound. The
two Hyalt companies can’t really provide perimeter security there and handle
road patrols against brigands. When the alectors start rebuilding the compound
or if they make a decision not to they’ll want us out of here pretty
quickly, especially if they rebuild. There really aren’t enough supplies and
provisions for us and for rebuilding and repairing their compound.” Mykel also
doubted that the submarshal wanted a Cadmian battalion around that had learned
it could kill alectors.
“Majer...
we killed alectors. We got a few here, and you took out more than that in
Tempre.”
“I
know. I worry about it. The alectors went to great lengths to create the
impression that they are unkillable. My guess is that we’ll be sent somewhere
out of the way, and somewhere that will cost us a lot of men. I’d thought about
resigning, or leaving, but...” Mykel shook his head. “It’s too late for that.”
“If
you do, more will die,” Rhystan pointed out.
“No
officer is indispensable, as much as I’d like to think otherwise.”
“I
didn’t say you were indispensable. I said more men would die. That’s because
you see things others don’t.” A twisted smile followed Rhystan’s words. “That’s
only true if you don’t go off alone and get yourself killed, like you
of the translation tube. He sensed another of the amber-green squares, but
decided against trying that. He didn’t want another encounter with the
ancients.
Then,
through the flashing green beams and the darkness that alternated with
momentary green brilliance, he began to make out the locator wedges except
they were more like cylinders, as if a triangle had been rolled so that the
vertex touched the base. That wasn’t quite it, because each side of the wedge
had been rolled, yet there was only one cylinder.
Dainyl
shook off his bemusement, and Talent-reached for the cylinder wedge that he
hoped was Elcien, and he found himself back in the purpled translation tube
with the whiteness of Elcien speeding toward him.
Passing
through the white-silver barrier was like passing through a mist of tiny unseen
knives.
He
stood on the Table, throwing up his shields full barely before the bluish
beams of lightcutters flashed across him.
“Stop!
It’s the marshal.”
Dainyl
waited, then stepped off the Table.
“I’m
so sorry, Marshal. I’m so sorry, sir,” babbled the recorder. “It’s just that
we’ve had wild translation after wild translation for the past half glass. We
lost one guard already.”
Dainyl
sensed both the truth of Chastyl’s words, and his sincere regret.
“You’ve
got some of that Talent-green on you ... like all the wild translations did,”
the recorder added.
“That’s
from the ancient weapon the rebels used on me. It will take a while to wear
off,” Dainyl explained. He had grave doubts that was the full explanation, but
it was easier and more appropriate for the moment. “I need to get back to
headquarters.”
He
also needed time that he was running short of to sort matters out, if he
could.
Chapter 12
In
the darkness just after twilight, Mykel and Rhystan sat at the single long
table in the small room that was the officers’ mess in the new compound or
would be. The single bronze wall lamp cast but a haze of light that scarcely
reached the end of the table and the two officers.
“I
have to say that it’s good to sleep on a real bunk again,” offered Rhystan.
“How long that will last...” He shrugged and looked at Mykel. “Have you heard
from the colonel?”
“Not
a thing, but I’d judge he only got my report within the last day or so and
that’s no guarantee that he’s read it.”
“You’ve
got a feel for these sorts of things. How long do you think we’ll be staying
here?” Rhystan took a last sip from the beaker of ale he had been nursing
along.
“I
don’t see us being sent off until the alectors return to their compound. The
two Hyalt companies can’t really provide perimeter security there and handle
road patrols against brigands. When the alectors start rebuilding the compound
or if they make a decision not to they’ll want us out of here pretty
quickly, especially if they rebuild. There really aren’t enough supplies and
provisions for us and for rebuilding and repairing their compound.” Mykel also
doubted that the submarshal wanted a Cadmian battalion around that had learned
it could kill alectors.
“Majer...
we killed alectors. We got a few here, and you took out more than that in
Tempre.”
“I
know. I worry about it. The alectors went to great lengths to create the
impression that they are unkillable. My guess is that we’ll be sent somewhere
out of the way, and somewhere that will cost us a lot of men. I’d thought about
resigning, or leaving, but...” Mykel shook his head. “It’s too late for that.”
“If
you do, more will die,” Rhystan pointed out.
“No
officer is indispensable, as much as I’d like to think otherwise.”
“I
didn’t say you were indispensable. I said more men would die. That’s because
you see things others don’t.” A twisted smile followed Rhystan’s words. “That’s
only true if you don’t go off alone and get yourself killed, like you
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