Time's Eye by Arthur C. Clarke, Stephen Baxter Read Free Book Online Page B

said carefully, “Then tell your chum to put his hands where I can see them.
Jildi
!
”
    The woman urged, “Do it, Casey. That gun might be an antique, but it’s a loaded antique.”
    The pilot, “Casey,” reluctantly complied. His left hand came up from under a panel of instruments holding some sort of gadget.
    Batson advanced. “Is that a weapon? Give it to me now.”
    Casey shifted in his seat, winced, and evidently decided he wasn’t going anywhere. He held out his weapon to Batson, butt first. “Have you rubes ever seen one of these? It’s what we call a skinny-popper. An MP-93, a nine-millimeter submachine gun. German make . . .”
    “Germans,” hissed Ruddy. “I knew it.”
    “Be careful, or you’ll stitch your own damn head off.” Casey’s accent was undoubtedly American, but it sounded coarse to Josh, like a New York City slum dweller’s, while the woman sounded British, but with a flat, unfamiliar intonation to her voice.
    From her seat the woman bent over Casey. “I think your tibia is broken,” she said. “Crushed under the seat . . . I’d sue the manufacturer if I were you.”
    “Up your ass, your majesty,” Casey said through gritted teeth.
    The woman said now, “Can I get out of here?”
    Batson nodded. He set the “submachine gun” on the ground, where it gleamed, fascinating, baffling, and stood back, beckoning her. Batson was doing a good job, Josh thought; he kept the three intruders covered with his own weapon, and continually checked the troops around him to make sure all angles were monitored.
    The woman had a tough time clambering out of the couch behind the two front seats, but at last she stood on the rocky ground. The second pilot, the Indian, climbed out too. He had the complexion of a
sepoy
but pale blue eyes and startling blond hair. All the machine’s crew wore clothing so bulky it masked their forms, making them seem inhuman, and wiry gadgets clung to their faces. “I guess it could have been worse,” the woman said. “I wasn’t expecting to walk away from this crash.”
    The other replied, “I guess Casey won’t be, for a time. But these birds are designed for worst-case hard landings. Look—the sensor pod crumpled and absorbed a lot of the shock. The pilot seats are mounted on shock absorbers too, as is your bench. I think the spin sent Casey’s seat tipping to the left, and that was what did his leg in—he was unlucky—”
    Batson interrupted. “Enough of your
bukkin’
. Who’s in charge?”
    The woman glanced at the others and shrugged. “I’m the ranker. This is Chief Warrant Officer Abdikadir Omar; in the chopper you see Chief Warrant Officer Casey Othic. I’m Lieutenant Bisesa Dutt. British Army, on assignment to United Nations special forces operating out of—”
    Ruddy laughed. “By Allah. A lieutenant in the British Army! And she’s a
babu
!”
    Bisesa Dutt turned and glared at him. To his credit, Josh thought, Ruddy blushed under his Lahore sore. Josh knew that
babu
was a contemptuous Anglo-Indian term for those educated Indians who aspired to senior positions in the dominion’s administration.
    Bisesa said, “We need to get Casey out of there. Do you have doctors?” She was putting on a show of strength, Josh thought, admirable given she had just come through an extraordinary crash and was being held at gunpoint. But he sensed a deeper fear.
    Batson turned to one of the privates. “McKnight, run and fetch Captain Grove.”
    “Right-oh.” The private, short and stocky, turned and ran barefoot over the broken ground.
    Ruddy nudged Josh. “Come, Joshua, we need to be involved!” He hurried forward. “Ma’am, please—let us help.”
    Bisesa studied Ruddy, his broad forehead crusted with dust, his beetling eyebrows, his defiant mustache. She was taller than he and she looked down on him with contempt, Josh thought—though with an odd puzzlement, a kind of recognition. She said, “You? You’ll come to the aid of a