And another wave. Longo counted six arrows in his own body; the one in his neck prevented him from issuing orders. He, too, was dying. More hunters fell from the sky, small bodies burned and broken, many with arrows still nocked in their bows. More kones succumbed. More arrows, more arrows—more arrows.

The kones lay dead, mountainous carcasses bristling with black shafts. Sprinkled around the bulky bodies of the kones were dozens of small wasted forms, the twisted and charred bodies of dead hunters. A horde of living hunters—sorrowful victors— descended from the skies and formed orderly groups.

Buccari ran down the hill toward MacArthur's limp form. Chastain beat her there, along with X.O. and Tonto. Chastain threw his jacket over MacArthur's torso. The hulking Marine looked up and moved to stop her.

"No, Lieutenant. It's real bad," Chastain sobbed, tears rolling down his blistered and blackened face. "Mac's not going to make it."

"He's alive?" Buccari asked.

Chastain nodded, holding her tightly by the shoulders.

She shook loose and staggered the short distance to where MacArthur sprawled, his legs angled grotesquely. The body of the dead hunter embraced the Marine, both forms covered by Chastain's jacket. Captain's black eyes stared vacantly into the blue sky. As Buccari stumbled up to the fallen warriors, X.O. moved to close the fallen hunter's eyes, all the while whistling a shrill, mournful wail. Tonto stood near, visibly trembling, but also whistling mournfully.

MacArthur' s chest heaved in shallow, pained breaths. She knelt down, putting his face in shadow. He blinked, his eyes focused, and he turned his head to her. His hand lifted from the ground.

"Hold…" he gasped. "Sharl…hold my hand." Tears rolled across his tortured face. Buccari took the strong, callused hand in hers and held it to her cheek.

"Let me…touch you…" he whispered. She relaxed her grip and felt his fingers glide over her face, lingering on the line of her scar. "Mac," she sobbed. "Mac, I…"

"In truth, you're beautiful, Shar—" His hand tightened around her wrist, and the light in his gray eyes faded out.

Chapter 44. Citizens

Cassy Quinn stood on the new planet, more resolved than bereaved. She had work to do—hard work—on a new planet, a planet with limitless potential, something she had dreamed of, something she had trained for. But she had forgotten about gravity. Her heart struggled to force blood to her extremities; her legs felt leaden, her head ached, and she was cold. Patience, she told herself, it had only been two weeks since they had landed.

"You okay, Commander?" Godonov asked. They had finished checking the lake station survey instruments. "You're pale." "I'm okay, Nes," she replied. "Just tired."

"You should take some time off and relax," he said. "You've been working too hard. Enjoy the scenery." He waved his hand at the hanging glaciers and snowcapped mountains. Bronze-tufted ducks, alarmed at their presence, ran along the water's surface and glided across the smooth surface of the lake. A large fish rolled its belly at them.

"I'm too excited to relax," Quinn answered.

The Legion scientists walked along the lakeshore and rounded the forested point of the protected cove, receiving welcome shelter from the cool lake breeze. The settlement clearing spread before them. Kateos and Dowornobb, helmets off, reclined on sun-washed grass above the sandy beach. Dowornobb waved.

"Good-ah news!" Dowornobb shouted. "Master Huhsawn has regained-ah consciousness. We just-ah receive radio transmission from your fleet-ah. The doctors say that-ah he will-ah live."

An oppressive weight lifted from Quinn's shoulders. Nashua Hudson's survival had defied logic and reason. His flesh cooked and his bones crushed, the ensign had been evacuated on the first EPL off the planet and immediately taken at full military thrust tothe medical facility aboard Tierra del Fuego. The accelerations and stresses of planetary escape worked against success; Hudson died enroute and was revived—twice. Fleet doctors and equipment could perform near miracles on a living being, but could do little for a dead one. Hudson's infirm body and nearly orphaned soul made it back to the fleet and were welded together. Healing would take much longer.

"Wonderful," Quinn said, a catch in her throat. "That means so much."

"To us, too, Commander," Kateos said, standing. "Hud-sawn is our good friend. We go with you." Dowornobb stashed the remains of their picnic in his suit pouches. They walked in silence past the circle of ash and charcoal that marked the perimeter of the settlement ruins. The palisade gate frame still stood, as did the blackened stone foundations of most the buildings. Guilders working on the new construction moved nervously from the paths of the kones. At least they no longer ran and hid.

"Ah, there are Dawson and Gol'berg with their babies," Kateos announced, brown eyes widening. "Come, my mate, and let us say hello. I want to hold a baby."

"Again!" Dowornobb smiled at his mate's tender enthusiasm.

"Excuse me, Commander," Godonov said, as the kones trotted away. "I should get started across the river if I'm going to catch the next apple. Fenstermacher has a ferry leaving in a half hour."

"All right, Nes," she answered. "I'll be back on Eire in three days."

She found herself standing alone. Reconstruction banged and clattered about her; rock walls were being cleaned and reassembled. The lodge roof had already been framed with new timbers. Winter was near; the survivors of Harrier One worked feverishly to restore the settlement.

Quinn self-consciously forced herself not to stare at the bare-chested men working the timber and rock. She was no prude, but she still was uncomfortable with their hairy, burnished bodies. Laser Corporal Tatum smiled at her as he hurried by with a tree trunk held firmly by one Herculean arm over his sinewy shoulder. The man's head was covered with reddish-blond hair pulled into a ponytail that approached his waist; his wide mustaches flowed into a thick beard, and his chest and back were pelted with a wiry, rust-colored gauze. His face was florid, the skin peeling and peppered with freckles. Quinn had to remind herself that the kones and the cliff dwellers were the aliens.

In the midst of the ruins, next to a large campfire, stood three konish tents. Et Silmarn, without his helmet, stood close to the fire, watching the activity. She walked up to the noblekone, anxious to share the fire's warmth.

"Governor," Quinn said in halting konish. "I use your fire."

"Good-ah day, Commander Quinn," Et Silmarn replied in Legion. "You speak-ah my language better with-ah each day. We soon not-ah need Mistress Kateos's translator. Please join me. It is cold-ah. How do they work-ah with bare skin?"

"Work keeps them warm," Quinn said, although she wondered the same thing.

"It-ah goes well," Et Silmarn said. "Perhaps Sharl is correctah to rebuild-ah. I should not-ah have demand—is «demand» right word?" Quinn nodded. "Should not-ah have demand-ah Sharl move all humans to Ocean Station for winter."

"You are not still angry with Sharl?" Quinn asked.

"No," the noblekone said. "Only, uh…hurt-ah feeling. Sharl said-ah Longo wanted humans to move south. It was insult-ah. I am not-ah Longo."

"She meant no insult, Et Silmarn."

"This I know. Sharl has pain in heart-ah."

Quinn nodded sympathetically and then remembered her duties.

"Admiral Runacres is scheduled to arrive tomorrow," Quinn said, switching to Legion and reaching into her haversack. "After the services are over he would like to have a meeting with you, and he proposes the following agend—"

"Commander," Et Silmarn said. "When Et Avian—Uh, King Ollant appoint me governor he make-ah it-ah clear that-ah all discussions with humans must-ah involve Citizen Sharl. We should-ah find-ah her, yes?"