“I never saw you face a wall that, if you couldn’t go over it, you’d not try to find some way around, through, or under, or blow it up with sapper’s charges. Or just bang your head against it till it fell down.”
Ten Standard Years can make a lot of differences. Most of them physical. They can also serve to emphasise the similarities.
Sahra sized up the area. This was open ground in the Cursedland wastes. There were no vents for her to crawl through. And she was way past being of a size to crawl through them, anyway. She had the resilient remnants of a crashed vessel’s bulkheads, a lot of similar wreckage strewn about, and a bunch of headstrong idiots shooting at her.
Ten years ago, they were her headstrong idiots and therefore valuable. Now…
“An orbital plasma cannon ain’t the answer I’m looking’ for,” she reminded herself. “Splash zone’s too dang wide anyhow.”
“Really? Orbital plasma cannon?” said Simy. “I know that isn’t you. You’re usually more subtle.”
Sahra glared at him. “You is talkin’ to the gal who rained yaller all over th’ Tuatta. An’ got the walls bleedin’. An’ vanished a whole bunch'a humans overnight[1].”
Simy considered this. “Fine,” he allowed, “You used to be a lot more creative. I’ve never seen you face an obstacle that, provided you couldn’t surmount it, you’d otherwise manage to disassemble, sabotage or otherwise just headbutt it into submission. Think. You’re good at that.”
“It’s real hard t’ think when your own folks is shootin’ at ya.”
“Fine. Then what kind of miracle would stop them?”
“Y'all got m’ spare dress? Reckon I’m up fo’ a spot o’ bi-lo-cation.”
Simy grinned, even as he transformed into Sahra’s double. “That’s my girl.”
[1] For a full chronicle of Sahra’s ‘miracles’, please read the Hevun’s Child Trilogy.
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