Chapter Eleven
Regi dashed forward, firing blindly. As the corridor offered no cover, his only salvation lay in reaching the door before the pirate could return fire. With each step, he expected to feel the blast of a weapon searing through his guts. When he reached his goal, Regi tried to push the door closed, but a jagged metal piece had been jammed into the hinge. Cursing every cold weather god in the pantheon for their impossible challenges, Regi yanked the handle and prayed for the bar to fall out. Of course it didn't.
Dante followed him. “Cover me. I'll get the door.”
“Get out of the area!”
“Not a chance. You can't fix the damn door and use your weapon at the same time.” Dante snapped back. He had shed the timidity that would appear like clouds across his personality, and now his strength shone like the sun. However, staying was death.
“The radiation levels are too high,” Regi said.
Dante flashed his teeth. “Trust me, I know. But if I'm going to get irradiated, I'm going to do it making sure you shoot that bastard in the eyeball. Assuming that shooting him in the eyeball is effective. If another body part works better, feel free to shoot him there.”
Dante’s tone did not suggest humor, but that sort of sadistic impulse was not in line with his forgiving nature. These pirates had done terrible things to both Dante and his fellow huumans, so perhaps his capacity for mercy had been overstrained. And the amount of time they had been exposed at such close quarters was likely already fatal for both of them.
“Get the door closed and then seek out Bevti.” With that, Regi eased farther into engineering and took advantage of a shielded conduit to move to a better vantage point. Dante worked to wiggle the scrap metal out of the hinge and Regi whispered a prayer under his breath. They said the cure for the attention of cold weather gods was the favor of the growing season gods. He whispered the names of each he remembered. He had been away from home for too long, because there were far fewer than he remembered being on the tests during fifth-year theology.
“Got it.” Dante let the metal clatter to the decking and then he pulled the engineering door closed with himself on the inside.
“What are you doing?” Regi demanded. He wished he could glare at the illogical creature, but he had to watch the shadows where the Styl pirate might hide.
“I've already been exposed to too much radiation. At best, I could retreat now and die slowly. I would rather go out helping you kill this bastard.”
“Bevti may be able to heal the tissue damage,” Regi said, although he suspected that was a futile hope unless huumans were far more resistant to radiation than most species.
“Sure,” Dante said and Regi had a flicker of hope that he might retreat, but he continued before Regi could speak. “She can heal a species that she has never had a chance to study and cure me of not only the radiation poisoning, but the long-term damage that will cause cancer. My people can't even cure cancer, so excuse me if I don't have a lot of faith in your people. I'm staying and I'm helping, so give me a damn weapon.” Dante put his hand out as if to accept a weapon that Regi had not offered.
For long seconds, Regi stared at Dante. Shock made any other action impossible, despite the fact that he had an enemy to worry about. But after a moment, he shook himself free of the emotion and scanned the field of battle. This area was intended for access only during cold dock when the engines were silent. It was a maze of conduits and heavily shielded structures. The irregular mechanics and deck lighting created ominous shadows that reminded Regi of the cold weather temple.
“I have only one gun.”
“Then I’ll take on the pirate with my fists. It won’t be the first time I laid into a bully.”
While Regi did not understand bully, he doubted one would have the strength of a Styl. Nevertheless, Dante appeared ready for battle.
“Would you be able to handle an anelace?” Regi put his hand on the long dagger that hung from his belt. It was a ceremonial weapon, primarily used when one had to dispatch an ailing or injured sacred animal. Regi had kept his as sharp and deadly as any Kowri. It was the only religious tradition he could maintain on a Coalition ship.
Dante raised his palm in a silent demand. Regi relinquished the weapon, his gut tangling at letting another handle it. No one had touched it since his da-father had gifted it to him on his nineteenth birthday. Dante weighed it in his hand and turned it over to study the long triangle of the blade. “Not quite as good as a Bowie knife, but it'll work,” Dante said. “If I'm going to stab him, do you have any suggestions for where I should put the blade?”
“I assume any place you slice skin will cause pain, but that weapon will not kill a Styl. They have thick bones that cover most of their vital organs. The best opportunity for you to extend your life is to retreat.” Regi had to try again. Guilt gnawed at his soul the way Divashi’s poisons could corrupt the body.
“I'm from Texas. We don't retreat. Sometimes we get our ass kicked, and apparently we occasionally get taken as slaves by an alien ship, but we don't retreat. You can put that down as part of the religion of Texas.”
“The part where you get your ass kicked or the part where you don't retreat?” Regi asked.
“Going all the way back to the Alamo, I would say both.” Regi wondered if Texas was as unforgiving a god as Gavd. They sounded similar. Dante looked around the dimly lit space. “Where do we look for this asshole?”
