Oh, I was quite willing to concede this wasn't the normal Kit, the man who teased me—as he still did—over my fear of traffic in the downtown Eden, the man who could laugh at silly things and joke with Waldron. But Kit in a fury? Yeah, he could lock a woman away from air and life. He'd regret it afterwards, but it would be too late.
This was in my mind a week later, when Kit picked me up at the center and said, as I stripped my work suit to emerge in the silver jacket and pants I'd worn in the morning. "I though we could go to the half-g gardens." He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and an almost sulky look.
I looked over at him and thought that his father must have been talking to him about the situation with Joseph Klaavil, or perhaps something else that Kit didn't wish to discuss and that Kit was trying to avoid going home. Part of me wanted to tell him to forget it.
First, I'd been uncomfortable around him since listening to Darla's confidences. More uncomfortable than I'd been before, which is to say very. Second, I was exhausted after a full day of work and wanted nothing more than to go home, allow myself one of my baths—I took them rarely because Kit's father insisted on not letting me pay for them—and fall into bed.
But there was something to Kit's face behind the sulk, a sort of anxious loneliness around his cat-like eyes, and I thought of the disquieting music winding out of his room late at night, and I said, "Half-g?"
He smiled, though the anxiety remained around the eyes. "It's exactly what it sounds like. Though it's not gardens, or not exactly, except around the picnic grounds. It's an area that's been carved, with huge rocks forming outsized stairways and caves and . . . that sort of thing. And the whole area is a playground. Families tend to go there a lot, for picnics and to let the kids hop around. But on a weekday and after work hours, there will be fewer people there. Because it will be dark soon."
Though Eden used a combination of piped in and simulated sunlight—depending on where Eden was on its erratic orbit—it kept to a standard Earth day and a standard Earth week, with Friday, Saturday and Sunday the days off when everyone did family things or played. On week nights the type of amusement was more likely to be of an adult sort—bars or dancing—and not what sounded like a kiddy attraction.
I wondered why Kit wanted to go there and tried to work up some alarm over the fact that he wanted to take me to a half- deserted place, just the two of us. But the thing was, while I was willing to consider and even to believe that Kit might have killed his wife in a fit of temper, even with the worst will in the world I couldn't bring myself to believe he would plan anyone's murder. Not even mine.
In fact—strangely—given my record of making people loathe me on sight and exactly how badly our acquaintance had begun, I'd started to believe Kit Klaavil liked me. Oh, nothing romantic like Darla would no doubt think, but he enjoyed my company. He had worse social habits than I. At best he was reserved, at worst sullen. But when he was showing me some place he loved—like the music center—or talking about some memory of childhood, he could be animated and almost fun. And, disquieting though it might be, we seemed to have similar senses of humor. I could look up after hearing Waldron or one of the other children say something that struck me as funny and find the like amusement in his eyes.
"All right," I told him, and it seemed to me there was a look of relief in his eyes. He grinned. "I got dinner packed."
And so I'd let him fly me out of the confusing traffic downtown and down a tunnel we'd never taken before, then up and up another level. I remembered his threatening to dash the Cathouse into the half-g gardens and realized it must indeed be quite close to the surface.
We parked in an almost deserted parking garage. The parking attendant made me flinch, because she was obviously mentally deficient. I'd seen mentally deficient people on Earth before, of course, but none with six arms, one of which collected Kit's money, another of which handed him a token for retrieving his fly and yet another of which locked a curved bar over the fly which could only be open with the token.
As we walked out of the garage, I was silent, filled with horror at what had been done to this poor woman. Given the ability to bio-engineer your children in the bio-womb, why have a deficient one at all? And if you chose to have one, why have her so grotesquely . . . dehumanized?
"You're very silent," Kit said, as we emerged into what looked like a meadow with trees and picnic spots consisting of flat ground and very even grass. The gravity was normal there, the grounds being just a convenience provided for patrons of the half-g gardens.
I fully expected him to ridicule me, but I stammered out my horror at seeing the poor girl bioed to resemble an octopus and at her obvious mental deficiency. "I think it's that sort of thing," I told him, "that caused people to rebel against the bio lords."
He stopped. We had been walking towards one of the picnic spots and a rather retro picnic basket dangled from his left hand as he turned to face me. "She's not bioed. Her family is probably one of the religious people who do not believe in bioing or elfing. Otherwise they would have corrected her problem in utero. In fact, she was probably born in vivo and not in a bio womb."
"But I thought everyone was born of bio wombs?"
"Oh no. One of my grandmothers was staunchly against it for religious reasons. A Gaian naturist, you know, and my mother was born in vivo."
"But then . . . how come this girl has eight arms?"
Kit blinked. Then he laughed. "She was wearing a bioed vest, Athena. Well, probably part biological and part mechanical, like our server bots." He looked at me and smiled. "I know it's not exciting, but it allows the poor thing to earn a living."
"Oh," I felt my cheeks heat.
He touched my arm, very lightly. "It's all right," he said. "I take it you don't have anything like that on Earth and so you were justified in guessing . . ." he shrugged.
"I only hear about bio-wombs and no one seems to carry their children . . ."
"Well, those who choose to do so are a small minority," he said, and shrugged. "Though there are people who believe the bio wombs are wrong, the vast majority of women enjoys the freedom and being relieved of the reproductive price."
I didn't intend on ever having children, but if I did, I could certainly see the advantages of letting a bio-womb carry it. Kit said that the wombs were provided with caretakers, who simulated the sort of environment they would have had in the mother's body, and the people I'd met seemed neither better nor worse than those on Earth.
Kit and I had our picnic, and then he returned the basket to the fly and led me into the half-g gardens proper.
"We came here a lot when I was little," he said. "It's very safe. The only time there was an accident at all was when the gravity got full-forced in a freak malfunction. My mom said she used to play here as a child."
I can't really describe the half g gardens. As best I can try to give you an idea, they were a vast area filled with the sort of constructions one expected in fairyland, or perhaps in children's book illustrations. Impossibly tall spiral towers rose, pale, encircled by gleaming staircases. Inside, spiral slides made of white dimatough led one by gentle stages back to the bottom. Then there was the stepping stone area. It was exactly what it sounded like, except that there was no river—just a series of spires ending in round footholds. By jumping just right you could hop from spire to spire. And if you missed and fell—which I did quite a bit at first—the ground beneath, while looking exactly like normal ground, was actually a soft, spongy substance.
When I'd got the hang of hopping properly from spire to spire, Kit said, "My nieces and nephews and I used to play this game . . ." He tried to explain it and it made no sense at all, even taking in account that it had involved seven people instead of two. It sounded like a cross between checkers and tick-tack-toe in which you were a piece—or actually several pieces—and you hopped between the spires to mark your place.
"Like this," he said, and jumped.
I saw the flash in the air, but had no idea what
it was. It seemed to me, for a moment, a mere glint, perhaps from the windshield of a passing flyer. Kit's scream seemed odd, but as he fell, between the spires, I thought he was joking, and hoped closer, half annoyed saying, "Come on, Kit, you were explaining . . ."
I hoped down near him, and recoiled, as I saw that his shoulder was all red. "What?"
I wheeled around and saw Joseph Klaavil. He stood on the nearest spire, and was aiming a burner at Kit.
It all happened very fast. I considered stepping in front of Kit, but Joseph's pinched, intent expression probably meant he wouldn't care and would cut me down on the way to getting Kit. And then I put on my desperate speed, jumping up to a smaller spire, then up again, to crowd Joseph on his. I hit his arm, and he turned to look at me, with the kind of shocked, blank look that meant he'd never seen me coming—he hadn't seen me move.
I hit his arm making the burner fall and then I kicked him hard, where Kit said I had an habit of hitting men. He fell off the spire, and I jumped down, to where Kit was, as excitement faded and I thought Kit was dead. Kit was dead and I was his ward and I didn't even want to think what they'd do with me now and—
Kit was sitting up, his hand clasping his shoulder tight. "What did you do to Joseph?"
Oh, thank you so much for your effusive gratitude, Cat Klaavil, sir. "I hit him." He gave me a level a look and I added, "Yes. There. He fell. I disarmed him."
Kit sighed. He was pulling at his jacket, which had a horrible, jagged tear at the shoulder, which matched the horrible, jagged tear in his flesh beneath. "I need to go to doc Bartolomeu," he said, his voice muddled and thickened.
"Can't we call him?" I asked. Communication devices of various kinds, usually embedded in rings or bracelets were all over Eden. "And ask him to come out?"
He shook his head. "I didn't bring . . . I wanted to be out of reach."
I cursed silently. I hadn't brought any sort of communicator, either. I hadn't figured out how to buy one yet, and besides, I didn't have any friends or anyone to call. And Kit dropped me off and picked me up. What could happen that he couldn't deal with.
"Right," I said. "Can you stand?"
He blinked. His inner eyelids were attempting to close, horizontally across his eyes. I had seen enough real cats—of the feline variety—on Earth to know this was definitely not a good thing. But thank heavens we were in the half g gardens. I managed to boost him up—though he was much taller than I—and hold him up, pulling his sound arm over my shoulders. I started half-leading-half-dragging him towards the garage.
And found Joseph in front of me, another burner held in his extended, trembling hands. "You killed my sister," he said.
"Don't," Kit said. "Don't. I—"
But I was furious. I had had enough of this. Let Kit not defend himself, if that was what he intended to do. Let him not react. Perhaps he couldn't react. His nictating eyelids were now almost completely closed. But I could.
I jumped and kicked Joseph's weapon out his hand. I punched him hard, sending him back into a spire. He fell in a heap, immobile. He was a light man, only slightly taller than I and of a slim build. I grabbed the burner. I pointed it at his head.
"Don't, Thena," Kit said. "Don't."
I looked over at him. He was very pale, clutching his shoulder. He shook his head. "He's Jane's only brother. He's the only child his parents have left. Don't."
I bit my tongue. I wanted to splat the creature's brains all over the ground. The fact that he was unconscious didn't even bother me. The thought that Kit might or might not have killed his sister didn't bother me. I knew the procedure in Eden was to take blood Geld or fight a duel. But this type of pursuit, and firing at Kit from cover was dishonorable, and trying to kill a wounded man struck me as evil. Trying to kill a man who wasn't—wouldn't—fight back seemed despicable. I was filled with rage.
But I was Kit's ward and I had some vague notion I could get him in horrible straights by killing Joseph Klaavil. So, instead, I pocketed the burner and returned to dragging Kit towards the garage.
By the time we got there, I had to jam his hand in the gen pad to unlock the flyer. And then I realized Kit couldn't drive the flyer. Actually, by then he was so close to full unconsciousness that I wasn't sure he could tell me where I was supposed to fly.
I though I could just drive to the nearest populated area, land and scream for help. People would be bound to come. But then I looked at how much bigger the dark, wet area on Kit's suit was, than it had been in the half g gardens, and I wondered if he would last long enough for someone to call specialized help.
He'd said he wanted Doc Bartolomeu.
I was crying as I dragged him into the passenger seat of the flyer and locked him in place, then examined the half dozen routes programmed into the memory. There was home, and the music center, and a couple of stores and . . . no Doctor Bartolomeu. And nothing that could be a hospital. I wanted to punch something and scream.
Instead, I turned towards Kit, whose eyes were barely open.
"Kit," I said. "How do I get to Doc Bartolomeu's?"
He opened his mouth, and then his eyes rolled into his head, and his body sagged.
Nineteen
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Supposing I survived this, without anyone accusing me of killing Kit, I'd still be left alone in Eden. How would it work? I now worked for the Energy Board, but did that mean that I would be allowed to go free after work, and live in Eden on my own. People seemed to be very leery of Kit Klaavil, but at least half of them were as leery of me.
I looked over at Kit, on the passenger seat. Right. It went beyond that. He had saved me, once. I didn't understand his forbearance with this man attacking him, but it was clear there was a lot more going on than I knew. Did I like Kit? I didn't know. I knew that over our months together, for all his occasional dark moods, he'd been the only one to ever look at me as more than a token representative of Earth, an Earthworm. And when I'd mistaken the girl for an awful bioengineered monster today he hadn't sneered about prejudice of close minded Earthworms, or even about fear of science.
Reaching over, I shook his good shoulder, slightly. "Kit. Please tell me where Doc Bartolomeu lives."
There was no answer. Like most flyers on Earth or in Eden, his was gen-lock activated. Time and again I'd seen him reach to the dashboard of the flyer and press his finger into the grey membrane slot to have his genetic fingerprint recognized and start the flyer. This time it took my unsnapping him from the restraints and pushing his finger into the dashboard. He felt warm and he was breathing. I had no idea how seriously he was injured, but I knew enough from broom accidents to know people could die very quickly from bleeding out.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I'd seen him drive often enough that taking off was no problem, nor was maneuvering outside the garage, into a tunnel surrounded by holograms making it look like peaceful countryside. And now what? I had a vague idea how to get to Downtown Eden and I supposed there must be some sort of hospital or med center there, though I'd never asked or had a chance to look for it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Thena, Kit said, his "voice" or the feeling of it so clear that I jumped and looked over to see him still slumped in the seat, kept upright only by the seatbelt restraints.
He hadn't talked. He couldn't have talked. Wonderful. I'm hallucinating now, I thought as I sped what must be at least a frowned upon speed—even if they didn't have traffic regs—in these bucolic parts.
Not . . . hallucinating. He said. Mind . . . link. There was a pause of nothing, then urgently, Let me use hands/eyes. Words difficult. Faster.
What?
If you let me . . .
I felt him nudge me—push me aside, clamber close inside my mind, crowding in. It was as though my mind were a piloting chamber and he'd entered it. Whatever restraint he'd employed before was no absent. He was coming in with all he was, holding nothing back. There was an hesitation as I tried to figure out how to move over, how to let him have the controls.
And
then he was . . . there. In my mind. All of him. Complex. Contradictory. Alive. Still alive. He must remain alive. A moment. Two. He was looking out through my eyes, using my hands. The fly took off. Your reflexes are unervingly slow.
That was the last time I heard his voice in my mind as a voice. Something odd was happening as his presence there didn't so much push me out of the way but tried to . . . mingle with mine. Our thoughts shuffled and clung, our memories intermingled.
I remembered being a boy child in Eden, playing games in the half-g garden with a lot of boys and girls, all younger than him, one of whom was clearly a younger version of Kath. I remembered a mother and father who loved me, who delighted in me. I remembered flying a ship for the first time, the joy of the controls in my hands, and the world in split-second snatches of light and sound and color, strange and yet not strange. Different eyes. The dark a symphony of singing colors. The light muted by obscuring contact lenses.
I remembered a violin in my hands, the wood old and glowing under my fingers, and a voice that sounded like Doc Bartolomeu's saying, "It was your father's," in a tone that mingled loss and hope. I remembered playing, the music flowing.
I remembered a blond girl—first a girl, maybe fourteen? And then a woman, warm in my arms. I remembered loving her—loving her till my soul lost itself in it and it was like playing the violin.
What remained of me tried to pull back. It wasn't even possible for me to do the things I was doing in those memories, and I had never, ever, ever felt that way about a woman. Nor did I want to.
But the memories held me, carried me, like a river that submerges and pulls, and I felt cold, cold, cold. I felt my body shake, and realized it was Kit's body I was feeling, that he was going into shock as he lost too much blood. My-his fingers flew on the controls. Scenes flew by that made no sense to my eyes and that made him struggle, because everything looked different.
Darkship Thieves-ARC Page 13
