A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth
| 78. Guilt. | 80. Better than a Hallmark Card. |
|---|
79. New Territory
Claws stares at the bullet. Samuel-Colt continues.
"You must strike an unarmored location, at least once, possibly twice. After the target has fallen, we suggest shearing off its limbs before towing it in. A dolly would be easiest, but a strap around the head would also suffice without damaging the specimen."
Claws, staring at him now. Drawls finally, "Reckon we could mount casters to the shell and kick it in."
Samuel-Colt. "That would work also. Field glue should be sufficient to affix them if the carapace is dry. We recommend wiping the carapace down with alcohol to remove any ichor first."
Claws carefully closes his fingers around the round. "Sam...."
"Claws." A sharp note, causing Claws to look at him. "There are things I cannot say. Without the Mother, most of what I have said I would not have been able to say. This is not my choice. It is by design."
Claws, hand fisted now. "You're tellin' me this is biology."
"Yes. Even with the Mother, I could not speak at all, only design weapons, had there not been a slight irregularity... in that during one of the changes in power, the new Mother decided everyone who interfaces with humanity had to be better at communicating with them. We spent one short life as a diplomat before resuming our work in weapons design."
"And this bein' a diplomat involves... a different model. Different brain?"
"Correct."
Claws is silent. Then. "You tellin' me you're tellin' us stuff Fiddlers have never told anyone?"
Samuel-Colt spreads his upper limbs in a very human gesture. "We do not know, Claws. Only that we are sharing information we have never shared in any of our lifetimes."
"Because of Spots."
"It is a phermonal matter."
Claws stares at him. "****, Sam, our mothers can't possibly smell like yours. We're flesh and bone and blood. You're mostly goo on the inside. You sure don't nurse."
"We know. We can only surmise that decades of exposure to humans has caused... an adaptation."
"That must be ****in' scary for you."
A hiss from the vestigial limbs. "It is the way of things. One adapts, or one dies." A softer note. "In a way, it is a blessing. We will never live among our kind again. It is comforting to regard humanity as less alien."
Claws. "****. Talk about comin' into a dysfunctional family. Look, I'm sorry. About this. About the hall." Rubbing his face with his free hand. "About draggin' that crab the **** in, and for what? We didn't learn nothin' from it."
"Had you truly killed it, it would have been useless for dissection. Do you not say hindsight is perfect?"
Claws. "There are people dead—"
"Most likely."
"—because of me!"
Samuel-Colt, another sharp note. "Because of the Enemy. Your guilt is not becoming, placing responsibility as it does in the wrong place."
"But—"
Samuel-Colt, staccato arpeggio, minor, descending. "No. If you believe you are worthy of blame, then are not the dead also for not being armed? For not being prepared? They were complacent, yes?"
"No!"
"Then?"
Claws. "****." He looks at the round again. "I'll have to tell them about this."
"We would prefer it, yes. Through you and the Mother." At Claws's look, Samuel-Colt finishes. "This situation..." A hesitation? "This situation grows more complex for us. Diplomatically. Biologically. We will need protection."
A silence then.
Claws. "All right. All right." He stands. "Is my apology acceptable, or should I do some special alien grovel dance?"
Samuel-Colt's long, sawing note is somehow dry. "If we require your dignity at any point in payment for crimes committed, we will inform you."
"Gee, thanks Sam. Good night."
"Good night, Peer."
Just outside the door, Claws stops. Turns and looks inside again. "****, Sam. An unarmored location?"
Samuel-Colt. "That is correct, Peer. You will have to shoot them in the eyes."
| 78. Guilt. | 80. Better than a Hallmark Card. |
|---|
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