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Trying not to think about what he was doing----trying not to let the pain overwhelm him completely----N'klareat held his face together until he was reasonably sure that blood was no longer fountaining from the gaping wound. He had no idea just how temporary the stoppage was. He was certain that the only thing preventing more bleeding was the pressure that he was applying, and because he was fighting off unconsciousness, he had no clue how long he could continue to apply that pressure. He had visions of slumping over and bleeding to death through his sliced-open face."
Would he dream in that state? If so, what would he dream about? Would his father and mother come walking out of swirling mists, extend a welcoming hand to him and bring him to wherever it was their souls resided (as the clerics of Rush preached)? Or would there be darkness and oblivion (as N'klareat suspected)? Then he realized his thoughts were drifting and he forced himself to focus once again.
The storm had begun to subside, and N'klareat began rummaging around Cholsan's body, using one hand while continuing to apply pressure to his face with the other. He was reasonably sure by this point that his right eye was intact, if for no other reason than that he didn't think anything was oozing out of the socket. But he could barely see with a damn, and he was operating more on feel than sight.
He had already stuck Cholsan's sword into his own belt. He felt the ornate hilt, and decided it was so elaborate that it was probably connected somehow to the royal house from which Cholsan hailed. He checked around Cholsan's belt and discovered some kind of pouch attached to it. He pulled on it, and it refused to yield. He yanked again, this time channeling some of the pain he was fighting off into the motion, and the pouch obediently came free. He rummaged through the pouch, hoping to find something along the lines of a first-aid kit. But there was nothing like that. Instead it appeared to be some kind of tool pouch. Not unusual even though someone of Cholsan's rank could hardly be considered a common repairman. Sendarians prided themselves on being ready for all manner of situations, and being able to make quick fixes would certainly fall under that consideration.
Then his fingers curled around something that he immediately realized could very well be useful to him. It was a small laser welder, handy for repairing any cracked metal surface (such as, for instance, a broken sword, or maybe a vehicle with a hole torn in the side.
It was not, of course, intended for flesh. Unfortunately, that was the use that N'klareat intended to put it to.
N'klareat sat down, bracing his back against an outcropping of rock. He brought the hilt of the sword up to his teeth and bit down on it. And then he raised the welder to his face and flicked the switch. From the two prongs which extended from the top, a small, intense beam of light flickered for a moment and then held fast. He adjusted the controls, trying to bring it down to its lowest intensity, but even that looked daunting. He couldn't allow himself hesitation, however, for he felt blood starting to flow anew from the wound. He had no idea of how much blood he'd already lost, but if he didn't do something about it soon, there was no doubt in his mind that he was going to bleed to death.
The one comfort he took was that his face was already feeling so numb, he doubted he had much sensitivity left in it.
He brought the welder up to his face and took several deep breaths, once more doing everything he could to push away whatever pain he might feel. Then he touched the laser welder to his skin at his temple, at the top of the gash.
He immediately discovered that he was still more than able to feel pain. A sharp hiss of air exploded from between his teeth even as he fought to keep his hands steady, struggled to make sure that his head didn't move. He bit down even more tightly on the hilt. He smelled meat burning and realized that it was him. He kept telling himself, Detach. Detach. Ignore it. The pain is happening to someone else very far away. It's not happening to you. Watch it from a great distance and do not let it trouble you. And as he kept repeating this, slowly he drew the laser welder down the side of his face. It was delicate work, because---working entirely by touch---he had to hold the piece of his traumatized face together and heat-seal them, while at the same time keeping his fingers out of the way of the laser proper. Once he got to too close and nearly bisected his thumb.
He had no idea how long it took him to complete the gruesome task. When he finished, the laser welder dropped from his numbed fingers. He slumped over, the world spinning around him, and it was only at that point that he realized he was still chomping down on the hilt. He opened his mouth slightly and the short sword clattered to the ground. He noted, with grim amusement, that he had bitten into the hilt so hard that he'd left tooth marks.
He was still chuckling over that when he lost consciousness.
When he woke up, his first thought was that he had been lying there for about a week. He couldn't even feel his mouth; his lips had totally swollen up and gone completely numb. Blissfully, night had fallen. The cool air wafted across him, gently, like a lover's embrace.
His mind informed him that this was the time to move. This was the time to haul himself to his feet and get the hell out of the Pit. It was always easier to travel at night. And he decided that that was exactly what he was going to do....as soon as he'd rested up a little more. He closed his eyes and---when he opened them once more---the sun was just starting to come up above the horizon.
And a creature was approaching him.
It was small, scuttling, and seemed particularly interested in the pool of blood that had coagulated beneath his head. And, as a secondary curiosity, it also seemed to have taken a fancy to the newly soldered gash in his face. It had a hard shell, black pupils eyes, and small pincerlike claws that were clacking toward N'klareat 's eyes. Given another few seconds, it would easily have scooped out N'klareat's right eye as if it were ice cream.
N'klareat didn't even realize that he was still clutching the sword. All he knew was that, instinctively, his hand was in motion, and he brought the gleaming blade swinging down and around, slicing the creature efficiently in two with such force that the two halves of the beast literally flew in opposite directions.
He smiled grimly to himself, or at least he thought he did, for he could not feel anything in his face.
Slowly he forced himself up to standing, his legs starting to buckle under him before he managed to straighten them out. He tentatively rubbed the caked blood out of his eye and was pleased to discover---upon judicious blinking----that the eye was most definitely in one piece. He surveyed his surroundings, confident in his ability to find his way around in the Pit.
That self-possession lasted for as long as it took him to take a look at his whereabouts. That was when he came to the sudden, horrendous realization that he had no clear idea where he was. "It can't be," he muttered through his inflamed lips. "It can't be." He had been sure that he knew every mile, every yard of the area.
But he had collapsed right in place---hadn't he? No. No, apparently not. Because now, as N'klareat ran the recent events through his head, there were brief moments of lucidity interspersed with the unconsciousness. He realized that, even barely conscious, he had started trying to head for home. It was as though he'd been on autopilot. But because he'd been operating in an ill, semidelusional state, he hadn't gone in any useful direction. He supposed he should count himself lucky; after all, he might've walked off a cliff. Still, he'd lost enough blood to supply fifty blood banks, he had a gaping wound on his face, he felt a throbbing in his forehead, and his pulse was racing. He had a suspicion that he was running a fever. Well, that was perfect, just perfect. In addition to all else he no doubt had a major viral infection of some sort.
He looked at the position that the sun held in the sky. Knowing beyond any question that he wanted to head east, he set off determinedly in that direction, not knowing, however, that he was concussed, confused, still in shock. Consequently, weary and bone-tired, he'd hauled himself east for nearly a day before he suddenly realized that he wanted, in fact, to head west.
By this time he couldn't move his arm at all, and he felt as though his face were on fire. But the sun had set, and he knew that there was no way he was going to survive another day of trekking through the heat. He couldn't, on the other hand, just stay where he was, which meant that night travel was his only option. That suited him better, in reality, because--despite exhaustion----he was scared to go to sleep for fear that he wouldn't wake up again. It was a worry that had some merit to hit. And so, memorizing the point over the distant ridges where the sun had set, and using the stars as his guide, N'klareat set off west.
He heard the storm's howling mere moments before it hit, giving him no time at all to seek shelter, and the winds hammered him mercilessly. N'klareat was sent hurtling across the ground like a rock skipping across the surface of a lake. And finally, N'klareat, who had endured so much in silence, actually let out a howl of fury. How much was he supposed to take? After everything that had been inflicted upon him by the Sendarians, now the gods were out to get him, too? Couldn't he be the recipient of even the smallest crumb of good luck?
And the gods answered him. The answer, unfortunately, was to try and make it clear to him that he was something of an ingrate. He was, after all, still alive. The gods, if there were gods, had permitted him to live, and if that was not enough for him, well then here was a reminder of how grateful he should be. Whereupon the winds actually lifted N'klareat off his feet. His hands clawed at air, which naturally didn't provide him with much support.
"Stoooooppppp!" he shouted, and then he did indeed stop---when the wind slammed him against a stone outcropping. And darkness drew N'klareat in once again.
By this point he had no clear idea where he was supposed to go, in which direction lay safety, or even what safety was. His own identity was starting to blur. He fought to remember his name, his home, his purpose. He was---he was N'klareat of Rush....and he.....
And then, like an insect blown by a breeze, it would flitter away from him before he could quite wrap himself around it. He tried to chase it, as if he were capable of actually laying hands on a passing thought, and then he fell down while at the top of a small hill. He tumbled forward, rolling down gravel which shredded his battered body even more. By the time he lay at the bottom of the hill, he was beyond caring.
He might've lain there for hours or days. He wasn't sure. He wasn't interested. All he wanted was for the pounding to go away, for the heat to leave him, for the pain to cease. How much was he supposed to endure, anyway? How much was he supposed to take?
He was tired. Tired of people relying on him. Tired of people looking to him for decisions. All his life, as far back as he could remember, he'd been fired with determination and singularity or vision. Obsessions, some would likely have called it. Still others would have dubbed it insanity.
But behind the obsession or insanity or whatever label some would attach to it was his own, deep rooted fear that he would be "found out." That deep down he was nothing more than a frightened young man, rising to the demands or expectations held by himself and others. As he lay there, feverish and dying, all the midnight fears visited themselves upon him, boldly displaying themselves in the heat of the noon sun. Fears of inadequacy, fears of not measuring up to the task that he had set himself and the standard others now held for him.
It had been so easy at first. There had been no expectations. He'd fired up his followers based solely on conviction and charisma. He had predicted success in battle, and then provided it. He had told his people that the Sendarians would soon find themselves on the defensive, and he'd met that promise as well.
But as he'd taken the Rizajors step by difficult step closer to their goal, paradoxically that goal became more and more frightening even as it drew constantly closer. For two fears continued to burn within him. One was that, for all the effort and arriving, the goal would be snatched from them at the final moment. And the second was that, if the goal was achieved----if the Rizajors won their freedom from the Sendarians.... .
.......then what?
He'd never thought beyond it. Indeed, the fact that he'd never thought beyond it was enough to make him wonder whether he himself, secretly, deep down, didn't consider it a true possibility.
Get up.
His eyes flickered open, wondering at the voice within his head. It was the first thing he'd detected inside his skull in ages aside from the pounding.
His father was standing nearby, standing in profile. His back was raw with whip marks. The sun shone through his head, and a small creature was coming toward him.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ44c4WAWkRM
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It was small, scuttling, and seemed particularly interested in the pool of blood that had coagulated beneath his head. And, as a secondary curiosity, it also seemed to have taken a fancy to the newly soldered gash in his face. It had a hard shell, black pupiled eyes, and small pincerlike claws that were clacking toward N'klareat's eyes. Given another few seconds, it would have easily scooped out N'klareat's right eye as if it were ice cream.
N'klareat didn't even realize he was still clutching the sword. All he knew was that, instinctively, his hand was in motion and he brought the gleaming blade swinging down and around, slicing the creature efficiently in two with such force that the two halves of the beast literally flew in two directions.
He smiled grimly to himself, or at least he thought he did, because he couldn't feel anything in his face.
Slowly he forced himself up to standing, his legs beginning to buckle under him before he managed to straighten them out. He tentatively rubbed the caked blood out of his eye and was pleased to discover----upon judicious blinking---that the eye was most assuredly in one piece. He surveyed his surroundings, confident in his ability to find his way around in the Pit.
That self-possession lasted for as long as it took him to get a look at his whereabouts. That was when he came to the sudden, horrendous realization that he had no clear idea where he was. "It can't be," he muttered through his inflamed lips. "It can't be." He'd been sure that he knew every mile, every yard of the area.
But he'd collapsed right in place---hadn't he? No. No, apparently not. Because now, as N'klareat ran the recent events through his mind, there were brief moments of lucidity interspersed with the unconsciousness. He realized that, even barely conscious, he had started trying to head for home. It was as if he'd been on autopilot. But because he'd been operating in an ill, semidelusional state, he hadn't gone in any useful direction. He supposed he should consider himself lucky; after all, he might have walked off a cliff. Still, he'd lost enough blood to float an armada, he had a gaping wound on his face, he felt a throbbing in his forehead, and his pulse was racing. He had a suspicion that he was running a fever. Well, that was perfect, just perfect. In addition to everything else he probably had a major viral infection of some sort.
He looked at the position that the sun had taken in the sky. Knowing beyond any question that he wanted to head easy, he set off determinedly in that direction. He didn't know, however, that he was concussed, confused and still in shock. Consequently, weary and bone-tired, he'd hauled himself east for nearly a day before he suddenly realized that he wanted, in fact, to head west.
He heard the howling of the storm mere moments before it hit, giving him no time at all to seek shelter, and the gusty winds hammered him mercilessly. N'klareat was sent hurtling across the ground like a rock skipping across the surface of a lake. And finally, N'klareat, who had endured so much in silence, actually let out a howl of fury. How much was he supposed to take? After everything that had been inflicted upon him by the Sendarians, were the gods now out to get him, too? Couldn't he be the recipient of even the smallest crumb of luck?
And the gods answered him. The answer, unfortunately, was to try and make clear to him that he was something of an ingrate. He was, after all, still alive. The gods, if there were gods, had allowed him to survive, and if that wasn't enough for him, well then here was a reminder of how grateful he should be. Whereupon the winds actually lifted N'klareat off his feet. His hands clawed at air, which naturally didn't provide him with much support.
"Stopppppp!" he shouted, and then he did indeed stop----when a powerful gust of wind slammed him against a stone outcropping. And darkness drew N'klareat in once again.
And the darkness tried to hold onto him as well, keeping him there as a permanent dweller. After what seemed like an eternity, he fought his way back to wakefulness. By the time he awoke it was day again. His fever was blazing, his wound was red and inflamed. He felt as if the only two things inside his head were the constant pounding and a tongue that had swollen to three times its normal size. He now had a ghastly purpling bruise on the left side of his head to match the mangling of the right side of his face.
By this point he had no clear idea where he was supposed to go, in which direction lay safety, or even what safety was. His own identity was starting to blur. He fought to remember his name, his home, his purpose. He was---he was N'klareat of Rush.....and he.....
And then, like a bug wafted by a breeze, it would flitter away from him before he could quite wrap himself around it. He tried to chase it, as if he were capable of actually laying hands on a passing thought, and then he collapsed while at the top of a small hill. He tumbled forward, rolling down gravel which shredded his battered body even more. By the time he lay at the hill's bottom, he was beyond giving a damn.
He might have lain there for hours or days. He wasn't sure. He wasn't interested. All he wanted was for the pounding to go away, for the heat to leave him, for the pain to cease. How much was he supposed to endure, anyway? How much was he supposed to take?
He was tired. Tired of people depending on him. Tired of people looking to him for decisions. All his life, as far back as he could remember, he had been fired with determination and singularity of vision. Obsession, some would likely have called it. Still others would have called it madness.
But behind the obsession or madness or whatever label some would attach to it was his own, deep-rooted fear that he'd be "found out." That deep down he was nothing more than a frightened young man, rising to the demands or expectations held in himself and others. As he lay there, feverish and dying, all the midnight fears visited themselves upon him, boldly displaying themselves in the heat of the midday sun. Fears of inadequacy, fears of not measuring up to the task he'd set himself and the standard others now held for him.
It'd been so easy at first. There had been no expectations. He'd fired up his followers based solely on conviction and charisma. He had predicted success in battle, and then provided it. He had told his people that the Sendarians would soon find themselves on the defensive, and he'd met that promise as well.
But he'd taken the Rizajors step by difficult step closer to their goal, paradoxically that goal became more and more frightening even as it drew constantly closer. For two fears continued to burn within him. One was that, after all the effort and striving, the goal would be snatched from them at the final moment. And the second was that, if the goal was achieved---if the Rizajors won their freedom from the Sendarians...
......then what?
He'd never thought beyond it. Indeed, the fact that he'd never thought beyond it. Indeed, the fact that he'd never thought beyond it was enough to make him wonder whether he himself, secretly, deep down, didn't consider it a true possibility.
Rise.
His eyes flickered open, wondering at the voice in his brain. It was the first thing he'd detected inside his skull in ages aside from the pounding.
His father was standing nearby, standing in profile. His back was raw with whip marks. The sun shone through his head, and a small creature scuttled uncaring through his foot. He didn't seem to notice. Rise, damn you, he said, his mouth not moving.
"Go away," said N'klareat. "Go away. Just want to sleep."
Rise. I command you to....
"Rot on your command!" snapped N'klareat. At least, that's what it sounded like to him. Truth to tell, he was so dehydrated, his lips so swollen and cracked, his tongue such a useless slab of overcooked meat, that anyone else listening would have been able to discern nothing much beyond inarticulate grunts. "I begged you to stay! Begged you! Where were your commands, your pride, when I needed you, huh? Where? Where?!"
Rise.
"Go to hell," he said, and rolled over, turning his back to his father.
There was a woman next to him. A naked woman, with thick blond hair and an impish grin on her face. She was running intangible fingers across his chest.
Get up, sleepyhead, she said. There was a playfulness in her voice, and something told him that it wasn't her usual tone. That it was something she reserved for him, and only for him. That in real life, she was tough, unyielding, uncompromising. Only with him would she let down her guard.
He blinked in confusion. He'd never seen her before, and yet it was as if he knew her intimately. It was as if she filled a void that he didn't even know he had. "Who....?"
Get up, Nick, she admonished him. We've got work to do....
He stared at her. She had a beautiful body. A flat stomach, firm breasts. N'klareat had never, in point of fact, seen a naked woman before. Oh, there had been women, yes. But it had always been rushed, even secretive, under cover of darkness or with most clothes still in place. He had never just relaxed with a woman, though. Never lain naked next to one, never idly run his fingers over her form, tracing her curves. Never been at ease---with anyone.....
What are you thinking, Nick? she asked him.
He reached a tentative hand over to cup her breast, and his hand passed through and came up with sand. There was no sign of her.
With a howl of frustration (or, more realistically, a strangled grunt) he lunged for the place where she'd been, as if he hoped to find that she had sunk straight into the sand and was hiding just below the surface. Some sand got in his eye, and it felt like someone had jabbed pieces of glass into his face. He blinked the eye furiously until the obstruction was gone, but now his vision was clouded.
The world was spinning around him and this time he did nothing to fight it off. All he had to do was get some rest and he'd be okay. That was the one thing of which he was absolutely sure.
Yes....yes, just a little rest...
The ground seemed softer than he'd thought it would. Everything was relaxing around him, beckoning him to relax, just---relax. That was all he had to do.
That's not an option.
It was a different voice this time, female, but certainly not the beauteous naked woman of his previous hallucination. He looked up in confusion.
There was a woman standing there, shimmering as if from a far-off time and place. She wore some kind of uniform, black and red, with a gleaming metal badge on her chest. Her hair was reddish black, and her face was sharp and severe. Yet there was compassion there as well.
"Go away," whispered N'klareat.
You're a Fleet officer. No matter what you are now----that's what you'll always be. You can't turn away from that!
N'klareat had absolutely no idea what was happening, and he certainly was clueless as to what this----this transparent being was talking about. "What's----what's Fleet? What----who are you? What-----"
You've got a destiny, son. Don't you dare let it slip away. Now get up. Get up, if you're a man.
There was a gurgle of anger deep inside N'klareat's throat. He didn't know who this shade was, didn't comprehend the things she said. But no one questioned N'klareat's bravery. No one----not even his hallucinations.
N'klareat hauled himself to his feet, adrenalin firing him. He staggered forward, and the she-taunter didn't disappear as the naked woman had. Instead she seemed to float in front of N'klareat, N'klareat steadily pursuing her. She continued to speak to N'klareat, but N'klareat really wasn't paying any attention to the details of her words. Indeed, they all seemed to melt together.
And he heard ghosts of other voices as well, although he didn’t see the originators. Voices with odd accents, saying strange names……
….and there was one word repeated. It seemed to be addressed to him, which was why it caught his attention. And the word was….
…Captain.
He tried rolling the alien word around in his mouth, to say it. As before, nothing intelligible emerged.
Time and distance seemed to melt away as he followed the floating, ghostly figure. Every step brought newer, greater strength to his legs, and soon his pain was forgotten, his dizziness forgotten, everything forgotten except catching up with his vision.
It all came rushing back to him. The stories of the Everyways, the visions of one’s future that one could come upon in the Pit if one was open enough to them. The visions which had refused to come to him when he’d sought them out. And now, when nothing concerned him---not even his own survival---that was when sights of the future presented themselves.
But was it the future? Or was it just---just fanciful notions from deep within his subconscious? That certainly seemed the more reasonable explanation. In his youth (odd that a man barely past nineteen suns would think in such terms) he had believed in fanciful mysticism. But he’d seen too much, stood over too many bloodied bodies. The fancies of his younger days were far behind.
But still---it had seemed real----so real….
And it was still there.
Still there!
That floating bitch was still there, floating away, leading him on, ever on. N'klareat let out a roar of frustration that, this time really sounded like something besides a grunt, and he ran. If he'd actually been paying attention to what he was doing, he would've realized the pure inhospitality of it. He was suffering from exhaustion, blood loss, dehydration, and fever. There was no way that someone who was in that bad shape should be able to move at a dead run across the blazing surface of the Pit, yet that was precisely what N'klareat was doing. And it was happening because he refused to let that ghostly whatever-she-was taunt him this way.
"Who are you?!" He shouted. "Where are you from? Where's the girl who was here before you? What's happening?! What's going to happen?! Damn you, I am N'klareat of Rush, and you will not run from me!"
There was a gap in the ground directly in his way. If he'd fallen into it, he could easily have broken his leg. It was five feet wide and eight feet deep. He leaped over it without slowing down in the slightest, and he wasn't even really aware that it was there.
And then he saw that the phantom, which was still some yards ahead, was starting to shimmer. He got the sense that it was fading out on him altogether, and the knowledge infuriate him all the more. "Get back here!" he shouted. "Get back here!"
The ghost faded away altogether....but there was something standing in its place. Something of far greater substance, accompanied by a few other somethings.
N'klareat's brother, Daeq'b, stood there and waved his arms frantically. Around him were several other members of the search party, which had been wandering the Pit for some days in what had seemed an increasingly futile search for N'klareat.
Daeq'b was a head taller than N'klareat, and half again as wide. He was also several years older. Yet, from the way in which Daeq'b treated his brother, one would have thought that Daeq'b was the younger, for he seemed to regard N'klareat with a kind of wonder. In many ways, truthfully, he was in awe of Daeq'b. N'klareat had always taken great pride in the fact that Daeq'b was such a confident, trusting soul that he didn't feel the least bit threatened by the fact that his younger brother's star shone far more brightly than his own.
The relief which flooded over and through Daeq'b was visible for all to see. He choked back a sob of joy and threw wide his arms, shouting his brother's name.
N'klareat ran up to him.....
......and pushed past him.
"Get back here!" he shouted at thin air.
The rescue party members looked at each other in confusion. On the one hand N'klareat looked to be in absolutely hideous shape; on the other hand, he certainly seemed preppy enough for a man who was at death's door.
"N'klareat?" called Daeq'b in confusion.
N'klareat didn't seem to hear him, or if he did, he simply ignored him. Instead he kept on running, gesticulating furiously, howling. "You don't get away that easily!" By the time the rescuers had recovered their wits, he was already fifty paces beyond them and moving fast.
They set out after him at a full run, and it was everything they could do to catch up with him. Daeq'b reached him first, and grabbed him by the arm. "N'klareat!" he shouted, keeping him in place. He gasped as he saw the huge gash in his brother's face close up for the first time. He tried not to let his shock sound in his voice. "N'klareat, it's me!"
"Let me go!' he shouted, yanking furiously at Daeq'b's arm. "Let me go! I have to catch her!"
"There's nobody there! You're hallucinating!"
"She's getting away! She's getting away!"
Daeq'b swung him around and fairly shouted in his face, "N'klareat, get a grip! There's nobody there!"
N'klareat again tried to pull clear, but when he turned to attempt further pursuit of whatever it was that existed in his delusional state, he seemed to sag in dismay. "She's gone! She got away!" He turned back, hauled off and slugged Daeq'b with a blow that---had he been at full strength---would damn near have taken Daeq'b's head off. As it was, it only rocked him slightly back on his feet. "She got away---and it's all your fault!"
"Fine, it's my fault," Daeq'b said.
N'klareat looked at him with great disdain and said, "And what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to take you home---help you----cure you...." He put his hand against N'klareat's forhead. "Gods, you're burning up."
N'klareat tried to make a response, but just then the exhaustion, the fever, everything caught up with him at the exact moment that the adrenaline wore off. He tried to say something, but wasn't able to get a coherent sentence out. Instead he took a step forward and then sagged into his older brother's arms. Daeq'b lifted him as if he were weightless and said, "Let's get him out of here."
"Do you think he'll make it?" one of the others asked him.
"Sure, he'll make it," said Daeq'b flatly as he began walking at a brisk clip in the direction of their transport vehicles. "He's got too much to do to die."
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