This Green Hell

FORTY-FOUR

Aimee sat with Sam on the deck of the aircraft carrier. The onboard surgeon had placed him in a spinal brace-chair, and now his bottom half was strapped up with dozens of belts, braces and wires to hold his lower spine as rigid as iron. She thought it looked uncomfortable as hell, but also knew that Sam probably no longer had much sensation below his waist.

He was translating Father Juan de Castillo’s journal for her. Saqueo sat squashed up against Sam’s other side, oohing and ahhing at the detailed drawings. The brittle, yellowed pages revealed the young priest’s hope and joy when they first arrived in the jungle, but later descended into sadness and despair as his companion and mentor, Father Alonso González, was injured, fell sick and then began to change into something strange and unholy.

Sam looked up from his translation as Alex and Casey Franks approached, and Aimee took the opportunity to flick back to a line drawing of a native girl. The artistry was beautiful: the girl’s eyes were almost alive as they stared liquidly back at her. Pressed into the page beside the likeness was a dried flower; its now wrinkled petals had made a blue star-shaped stain on the thick paper. Aimee briefly wondered what had become of the little dark-haired girl.

‘At ease, everyone,’ Alex said. ‘Still a few hours before we get choppered into Key West. Might as well enjoy the downtime. We’re all still very tired.’

He sat down heavily next to Aimee, then lay back, his face turned to the sun, and closed his eyes. Aimee was about to show him the portrait of the girl when she saw how pale he was.

She frowned. ‘Alex? Are you okay?’

He breathed in and out deeply, then sat up slowly. ‘I’ve felt better. I’m so tired, and another headache isn’t helping.’

Aimee gasped and tears sprang into her eyes. ‘No!’ She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him closer. His eyes were streaked with black veins.

‘Get the doctor!’ she screamed to Franks. ‘And get some ice.’

Jack Hammerson pushed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, screwing up his face in disbelief, as he listened to Sam Reid’s assessment of Alex Hunter’s condition. Sam had refused the execution order point-blank, and had vowed to kill anyone who tried to carry it out — wheelchair or not. When it finally came down to it, Hammerson felt the same.

He swore again. Alex Hunter, the Arcadian, brought down by something smaller than the eye could see. Bullshit! He opened his eyes. Brought down, but not killed, not yet, he thought.

‘I’m sending a cryo-cylinder,’ he told Sam. ‘You ensure Hunter goes in there ASAP. And you report to me and no one else on this, understand? If anyone asks, you’re transporting Makhdoum’s body. Got that?’

Hammerson lowered his head when he heard Sam’s next report. ‘I see. Have Dr Weir sedated — that’s an order! When she wakes, I’ll speak to her.’ And tell her Alex Hunter is dead, whether he is or not, he thought glumly as he disconnected the call. He hated doing this sort of stuff.

He fell back into his chair and contemplated the situation. The cryo-therapy would lower Alex’s thermal range to minus 150 degrees, putting him — and the Hades Bug — in suspended animation. Any lower and Alex’s cell walls would freeze and then burst. The downside was that when his body was warmed again, his brain would probably be jelly. At present, there were only two paths available for Alex Hunter — both terminal. One: Medical Division would get him — alive or dead — for immediate autopsical analysis. He’d end up in a hundred different sample jars and test tubes — just little bits floating in formaldehyde. The second path was no better: the bacteria would lie dormant until its host was warmed, and then turn him to mush — an ignoble end for a near invincible warrior.

Alex Hunter needed medical treatment — just not ours, Hammerson thought. He brought his fist to his chin and tapped for a moment. Only two paths unless we engineer a third … He stopped tapping and narrowed his eyes. Right now, Alex needed a guardian angel — one who could get him out of the country and into level-1 medical treatment. He sat still for another few moments, his mind working, then he leapt forward, reached for his comm unit and selected a name from his list of HAWCs. There was a notation beside the name: ‘UA/AAO’; it meant ‘Unauthorised Absence; Armed Approach Only’. A hard case, he thought as he placed a call to the secret number.

‘I have some news,’ he said, the instant it was answered. ‘It concerns Captain Alex Hunter.’ He paused, then spat, ‘I know you know, and I couldn’t give a fireman’s fuck what you think. You want to help Hunter, you get here ASAP.’

He hung up and swivelled his chair to sit staring out through the window. This’ll either work beautifully or get very ugly, he thought with a grim smile as he clasped his large, rough hands across his chest.