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and began pulling it away from the landing site, towards the southwest ... not quite the same path that the others had taken.
    "The thing is still alive! It's got an arrow in the chest, but I can see it breathing." Scriber's heads turned toward Wickwrackrum. "I think we should rescue it."
    For a moment Peregrine couldn't think of anything to say; he just gaped at the other. The center of Flenser's worldwide cabal was just a few miles to the northwest. Flenserist power was undisputed for dozens of miles inland, and right now they were virtually surrounded by an army. Scriber wilted a little before Peregrine's astonishment, but it was clear he was not joking. "Sure, I know it's risky. But that's what life is all about, right? You're a pilgrim. You understand."
    "Hmf." That was the pilgrim reputation, all right. But no soul can survive total death -- and there were plenty of opportunities for such annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.
    And yet, and yet this was the most marvelous encounter in all his centuries of pilgrimage. To know these aliens, to become them ... it was a temptation that surpassed all good sense.
    "Look," said Scriber, "we could just go down and mingle with the wounded. If we can make it across the field, we might get a look at that last alien member, without risking too much." Jaqueramaphan was already backing down from his observation point, and circling around to find a path that wouldn't put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn; part of him got up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted to being a spy; he carried an invention that was probably straight from the Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro....
    Peregrine took a quick look around their side of the hill and across the valley. No sign of Tyrathect or anyone else. He crawled out of his various hidey holes and followed the spy.
    As much as possible, they stayed in the deep shadows cast by the northering sun, and slipped from hummock to hummock where there was no shade. Just before they got to the first of the wounded, Scriber said something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. "Hey, don't worry. I've read all about doing this sort of thing!"
     
     
    A mob of frags and wounded is a terrifying, mind-numbing thing. Singletons, duos, trios, a few quads: they wandered aimlessly, keening without control. In most situations, this many people packed together on just a few acres would have been an instant choir. In fact, he did notice some sexual activity and some organized browsing, but for the most part there was still too much pain for normal reactions. Wickwrackrum wondered briefly if -- for all their talk of rationalism -- the Flenserists would just leave the wreckage of their troops to reassemble itself. They'd have some strange and crippled repacks if they did.
    A few yards into the mob and Peregrine Wickwrackrum could feel consciousness slipping from him. If he concentrated really hard, he could remember who he was and that he must get to the other side of the meadow without attracting attention.
    Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him:
    ... Blood lust and slashing ...
    Glittering metal in the alien's hand ... the pain in her chest ... coughing blood, falling ...
    ... Boot camp and before, my merge brother was so good to me ... Lord Steel said that we are a grand experiment....
    Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines in paw. Slash the monster's throat. Blood spouts high.
    ... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please?
    Peregrine whirled at that last question. It was pointed and near. A singleton was sniffing at him. He screeched the fragment off, and ran into an open space. Up ahead, Jaque-what's-his-name was scarcely better off. There was little chance they would be spotted here, but he was beginning to wonder if he could make it through. Peregrine was only four and there were singletons everywhere. On his right a quad