by Deborah J. Ross, writing as Deborah Wheeler
Chapter 27
The Clan Hath engineer-scientists had
moved the scrubjet to a huge, airy dome on the western outskirts of the city.
As soon as they arrived, Raerquel turned the entire laboratory over to Eril and
Kithri. They spent the better part of a day planning the modifications. At
first, Brianna hung over Eril=s
shoulder, scribbling notes on the seaweed-gelatin sheets the gastropoids
supplied. By the time they were ready to begin, she=d
gone off on her own to explore the rest of the Clan Hath enclave. Once it
became apparent Lennart would be of little use, he too disappeared. Eril was
too busy to wonder what he was up to.
What Kithri suggested, the adaptation
of the duoapparatus for gastropoid usage, proved to be far from trivial.
The shipbrain and its sophisticated connections to the guidance systems were
not designed for easy access. Rather the reverse, they=d
been shielded from both the insidious Cerrano dust and the prying of
incompetent, perhaps drunken, fingers. Spacebound installations were scarcely
better protected
In order to expose the connections
between shipbrain and the headsets, as well as the sensors and flight control,
they=d
have to cut through Brushwacker=s
ceramometallic hull. They both knew, without having to say it aloud, that
without elaborate re-sealing, it would no longer be safe at duo speeds.
Eril squelched an irrational desire to
maintain the flightworthiness of the tiny ship. If the planet=s
blown to powder, where could a scrubjet take us that would be safe? Besides, we=re
not doing this to save our own skins.
The jaydium cutter was cool and light
in Eril=s
hands. He paused before slicing through the smooth patina of Brushwacker=s
skin. He glanced at Kithri, standing behind the stubby wings and holding
several of the sculpted therine tools. She=d always acted so possessive about the 'jet,
as if it were everything she owned. Skies, it was everything she owned.
Yet now she said nothing, only watched with her mouth so tight it looked white.
Without a word, she slid beneath the ship and began to work through the rear
panel.
Breaching the ship=s
seals without destroying the complex machinery inside turned out to be even
more tedious and demanding than Eril had imagined. If he=d
had any inclination to become a mechanic, it quickly vanished. Burned
fingertips, creaking knuckles, aching neck muscles and red, watering eyes
seemed to be an intrinsic part of the job. He groaned inwardly at the prospect
of the hours of work before they could begin recalibrating the circuitry for
the gastropoid nervous system.
Finally his eyes refused to focus on
anything closer than his foot. His fingers on the jaydium cutter felt as if
they=d
been fused into permanent claws. He shoved himself out from under the scrubjet=s
nose and clambered to his feet. Kithri swore as she banged her elbow against
the cut-away wall.
"We both need a break," he
said, rubbing his fingers. To his surprise, they straightened, although with
protest. He shook his shoulders, trying to loosen them.
Kithri rolled out from under the ship
and sat up. She muttered, "You can if you want to. I=ll
just check--"
