Blood Will Tell

by Christine Pope

  He was marking time, she realized finally. Their pact had originally involved only his getting her away from Iradia, but whether from a sense of misplaced chivalry or concern that she still couldn’t make it on her own, he was staying with her until she had her future settled and knew where she was going. This was not how he lived his life normally—trapped in an over-civilized city, sleeping on fine sheets, searching for ways to fill the empty hours.

  Of course it was not a lifestyle to which she was accustomed, either, but the novelty of living on Callia was enough to keep her entertained. What a refreshing change it was never to worry about how much anything cost or whether there would be enough to eat, to wander into the shopping districts and buy whatever she wanted, to have a team of hotel staff that catered to her every whim, whether it was bringing up another meal or sending a stylist to her suite to make sure every hair was in place before she went out to dinner. No, there were definitely worse ways of spending one’s time.

  But she knew the idyll couldn’t last. The fear had been there, ever since she had admitted to herself how much she cared for Thorn, but she’d been able to push it aside. Now that grew more difficult with every passing day.

  It came to her one morning as she stood in front of the mirror. Her hair still fell in complicated ringlets from the style of the night before, and her eyes were smudged with leftover cosmetics and lack of sleep. He’s bored. There’s a whole galaxy going about its business out there, fighting and scheming, and he’s stuck here with you.

  It hadn’t been much of a surprise when she heard on the news reports that the Gaian Defense Force had swarmed Iradia, quelling the uprising within a few weeks of its birth. Military rule was established, and some of her home world’s lawlessness had retreated, at least so it wasn’t quite so blatantly obvious. Although Miala worried about the few friends she had left behind there, she knew better than to try to contact any of them. She couldn’t risk giving away her whereabouts, not when she had done such a good job of disappearing from Iradia. Perhaps it was wrong to leave them to think she was dead, but she’d taken that risk the day she went to work at Mast’s compound. Even then it was as if she had known she would never return to the shabby little house she had shared with her father on one of Aldis Nova’s back streets.

  So she waited to hear back from any of the universities to which she had transmitted applications, tried not to ask Thorn where he went during the day—she had a sneaking suspicion that he was in the midst of stockpiling supplies, or planning his next job—and attempted to quell the fear that seemed to rise in her a little higher every day.

  It didn’t help that on several occasions she felt quite ill and remained in bed longer than she normally would have. She wanted to attribute her queasiness to the rich seafood-based Callian cuisine, but she knew better than that. On her eighteenth birthday she’d gone and gotten the contraceptive implants custom expected, even though at the time she hadn’t thought she’d have much use for them. But she’d heard horror stories of how the techs at the clinics sometimes switched out the implants with placebos so they could sell the valuable pharmaceuticals on the black market. She’d always assumed the stories were just that, urban legends with no real basis in fact, but her body seemed to be telling her something quite different.

  And she was damned if she knew what the hell she was going to do about it.

  The message looked innocuous enough. From the Registrar’s Office, it said, and Miala assumed it was merely an acknowledgment that her transcripts had been received. Still, she clicked on it, if only to clear it out of her incoming messages folder. Her eyes scanned the few paragraphs the message contained, and then she sat quite still.

  “Close message,” she said at length, and Thorn stuck his head out from the dressing area.

  “Did you say something?”

  Miala stared at him for a moment, as if trying to memorize every line of his face, every detail, from the sheen of his still damp hair to the dark stubble on his unshaven chin. “I got in,” she replied finally, marveling that her voice sounded so calm.

  He didn’t bother to ask what she meant. “Where?”

  “Nova Angeles. My first choice. I didn’t think they’d get back to me so fast.” No, she thought, I thought I’d have a few more weeks at least. A few more weeks with you.

  Nothing in his face, no response, not even the slightest hint of disappointment or surprise. He asked, “When do you start?”

  She picked up the cup of now-lukewarm coffee that sat on the table next to her computer, took a careful sip, and forced herself to swallow, even though the liquid tasted like gall. “Winter term starts in five standard days. I have to look into transport, but it’s probably going to take me at least three days to get there, so—”

  “So—” he repeated, and looked down at the sonic razor he held in his hand as if wondering how it had gotten there.

  Say something, she thought. Say anything. Say you’ll go with me—say that you don’t want me to go—say that you want me to stay.

  A long pause, one in which Miala was certain Thorn could hear her heart pounding within her ribcage. Then he said, “You’d better start packing, then. I told you that you bought too many clothes.”

  And with that he disappeared back into the dressing area. A few seconds later she heard the sound of the razor being switched on.

  The computer screen before her seemed to blur. Angrily, she blinked back the tears. Don’t give him the satisfaction, she told herself. What did you expect, anyway?

  The message from the University of Nova Angeles had a biometric acceptance system. Her thumbprints and retinal scans had been included with the transcripts she had transmitted and were already on file. With a savage gesture she lifted her hand and pressed her thumb against the screen, indicating she had accepted their offer.

  The hell with you, Thorn, she thought, and went to retrieve her suitcases from the wardrobe.

  The taxi that carried them to the spaceport was larger than the one they had first used after their arrival on Callia. It had to be, to accommodate Miala’s luggage.

  Through it all, the last-minute travel arrangements, the conversion of her share of Mast’s units into vouchers or deposits in the accounts she had established, she managed to avoid any confrontations with the mercenary. She’d even allowed him to make love to her one last time, although for once she took no real pleasure from the act. She watched everything she did as if standing to one side and observing, as if it were all happening to someone else.

  Now and then she reflected on how strange it was that one person could change her priorities so greatly. Six weeks ago she couldn’t have imagined a better future than attending a prestigious university, especially without having to beg for scholarships or grants. Now, when she thought about school at all, it was with a feeling of gray indifference.

  Still, she had made her decision, the only logical one she could have made. She was proud of herself for never having wept in front of Thorn, not even the one dim morning when she had crept from bed and gotten sick in the bathroom. She had stayed there much longer than necessary as she clung to the edges of the commode and tried to calm the wracking sobs that shook her body. Thank God he’d slept through it all. She couldn’t have found the words to explain to him exactly why she was feeling so wretched.

  He sat beside her now, face unmoving, as the sights of Chistan Major streaked past. Today of course was beautiful, the sky a delicate blue-green traced with slender clouds. It seemed to mock her dark mood.

  At least this time she set out looking like a lady. No one would have guessed her dubious origins by looking at her, she thought. The Zeta Sector, where Nova Angeles was located, had a reputation for snobbery. But between her expensive clothes and the trace of Gaian accent that was her only inheritance from her father, no one could possibly guess that fewer than two standard months earlier she had been scrubbing pots in Mast’s compound.

  The taxi came to a slow stop outside the spaceport’s main entran
ce—the only one functioning after the disaster of a month ago—and the door lifted open. At least this time their trip hadn’t been interrupted by an overly talkative mech. This one seemed to have had its voice circuits permanently disabled…probably by a disgruntled off-world tourist.

  Thorn got out and extended a hand to her. For a second she hesitated, then took it. After all, she told herself, she couldn’t exactly make a grand exit if she ended up tripping over the heavy skirts of her traveling suit.

  Handler mechs appeared to extract her luggage from the cargo compartment of the aircar. She handed the thin plastic ticket to one of them. It passed a reader over the ticket, nodded, and directed the other mechs to take the luggage to the complex of landing pads controlled by Eridani Royal Spacelines.

  Still without speaking, she handed the mech cabbie a credit voucher, waited while it scanned the voucher and collected its fare, then turned to go inside the spaceport. At least it looked as if they’d done some cleaning up in the intervening weeks. The green caution tape was gone, and new glass gleamed along the entrances.

  “I can go from here,” Miala said at last. “Thanks for coming with me this far.”

  Thorn gave her the familiar narrow look from under his dark brows, and shook his head. “I’ll see you over to the boarding area.”

  She knew there was no point in arguing with him, and so she merely lifted her shoulders and walked into the spaceport, pausing briefly to study the glowing holographic map just inside the door. The ERS lounge was at the far end of the spaceport—naturally, she thought wryly—and it appeared the moving walkways were still broken. At least she had had the sense to wear flat shoes.

  The corridors of the spaceport were considerably more crowded than they had been when she and Eryk Thorn first arrived on Callia. Tourism seemed to be picking back up, for which she was glad. The local economy had been in a freefall since the series of tidal waves that had obliterated most of the coastline. Of course, as Thorn had dryly pointed out after she returned from yet another shopping expedition, that didn’t mean Miala had to single-handedly shoulder the responsibility of reviving it.

  As they walked, neither speaking, she wondered what stubbornness or final sense of duty led him to come with her. She knew better than to hope for a final impassioned outburst. He probably just wants to make sure I really do get on the ship, she thought. I’ve complicated his life enough as it is. If he only knew just how much more complicated I could have made it….

  The ERS lounge held a few travelers, mainly humans. It had survived most of the damage that had touched the rest of the spaceport. Dull gold hangings softened the huge windows, and alien flowers bloomed in tastefully grouped planters.

  Thorn paused only a few steps into the lounge area, far enough away from the other travelers so he and Miala wouldn’t attract any attention. At least, she assumed that was his intention, although she reflected that spaceport lounges such as this one had probably been the stage for countless teary goodbyes and other not quite socially acceptable scenes.

  At least her eyes were dry—for now. She glanced up at Thorn, and tried to look at him with the eyes of a stranger. Then he became just another swarthy, stony-faced man of slightly greater than average height, with nothing in particular to recommend him.

  I can do this. If nothing else, Thorn has certainly taught me a good poker face.

  If her own lack of expression discomfited him, he didn’t show it. “So you’re sure you have everything set?”

  She nodded. “The housing agent at school already has an apartment secured for me. I’ll get the rest of what I need once I arrive on Nova Angeles.”

  Was it her imagination, or was he beginning to a look a little uncomfortable? He frowned slightly, and she stifled a sudden absurd impulse to laugh. Who would have thought that the galaxy’s greatest mercenary would be laid low by a simple goodbye at a spaceport?

  “It’s been fun, Thorn,” she said, making sure her voice sounded brittle and light. “I’d promise to write, but since I have no idea where you’ll even be—”

  “Miala.” His voice was quiet, but something about his tone quelled her, stopped the flow of deliberately sarcastic words. “You know I’ll always be able to find you.”

  “Right,” she replied. “How could I forget? The great Eryk Thorn always gets his man.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her with any nonsense about a Captain Marr.

  “The question is,” she continued, forcing a twisted smile to her lips, “whether you’ll want to find me.”

  “Do you undervalue yourself that much?”

  “Why not?” From the speaker system she heard the announcement for her flight. It had an odd, tinny quality, as if she were hearing it with ears not her own. Then, knowing a good exit line when she heard one, she added, “You did.”

  And with that final shot she turned away from him and forced herself to follow the other passengers down the corridor that led to the ship. Even as she did so, she wondered whether he would try to stop her.

  Of course, he did not.

  Her passage was for first class, naturally. Since Miala’s only experience of space flight had been her trip to Callia in the Fury, she was pleasantly surprised by the luxury that greeted her as she entered the main compartment. No cramped grav seats here; the first-class lounge looked more like the lobby bar of the Eridani Majesty than the interior of a spaceship, and her sleeping quarters, although small, had been designed with every convenience in mind.

  The handler mechs had done their jobs. Her luggage was already there, stowed under the bed and in the small wardrobe. A comfortable chair stood near the small square viewport, and she sat down on the well-padded seat to watch her departure from Callia.

  In a gentle, majestic movement, the liner lifted straight up from the landing pad. Miala watched the ground slowly recede until all of Chistan Major lay spread out below her. Immediately ahead of her the sea glinted blue and green, glowing one last time in her vision before the ship moved up through the cloud layer. Then the curve of the planet transformed into a disk, even as the luxury liner turned away from Callia and pointed toward the black of deep space.

  The shift into subspace was barely perceptible on a ship of this size. But Miala watched the starfield distort into streaks of pale fire and realized she was already on her way to Nova Angeles. Suddenly she felt very tired.

  So he was gone. She realized she had never even said goodbye.

  Everybody leaves, she thought. One by one, they had all abandoned her in their way. Her mother. Her father. Why had she thought Eryk Thorn would be any different?

  The hurt came then, a deep cramping ache that felt like the accumulation of every unshed tear she had ever held back, every word of love she had never spoken to him. Suddenly it seemed as if she were being suffocated, and she pulled in a deep gasping breath. At last the tears followed, and she leaned her head against the viewport and wept. She wept not because she expected any comfort from it, but because she knew if she held the tears in any longer, she would surely die.

  Time passed, and gradually her sobbing eased. She raised her aching eyes to the viewport and watched the subspace-distorted heavens streak by. His absence from the pretty little stateroom felt like a gaping hole in the fabric of her universe, but she knew no amount of tears would change that.

  Her mouth was dry, filled with the taste of dust and ashes, like the dryness of an Iradian summer. She stood and went to the little refrigeration unit. It, too, had been stocked with all manner of conveniences, and she pulled out a small pouch of mineral water.

  The water revived her somewhat, but it did little to dispel the bitterness she could still taste. It came from somewhere deep inside her, and no amount of water could change that.

  Everybody leaves, she thought again, and she brought her hand to rest against the still flat contours of her abdomen. But I won’t. I’ll always be here for you, little one.

  Thorn might be gone, but she had this one last legacy from him, somet
hing he could never take away from her. Something to remember him by.

  Where Thorn was now, she had no idea. Away from Callia already, no doubt. Quite possibly he went straight to his own ship after she was safely gone. There would always be the next job, the next score. It was what drove him, and she knew she could no more change that than change the color of his eyes.

  You may think you’re alone in the galaxy, she thought. But there will always be this other part of you, this one good that came from my love for you.

  She wished she could stop loving him. It would be easier that way. The best she could hope to do was transfer that love to his child—and hope that, one day, it would be enough.

  PART TWO

  Nova Angeles

  XIII

  The deserts of Iradia swirled past the viewport, gold and ochre and mottled brown. They did not seem to have changed much over the past eight years.

  Miala shifted in her seat and frowned. After all the times I swore I would never come back here, she thought, then turned away from the window and began to busy herself with gathering up her belongings—her computer tablet, a half-drunk pouch of water—and placing them in the sleek leather satchel that was the only piece of luggage she had brought with her into the passenger compartment. The rest of her clothing and other personal effects were still safely stowed in the small cabin that had been her home for the past two days.

  “Mistress Felaris?”

  She looked up to see Master Dizhan, the Eridani who had hired her, hovering near the door to the passenger compartment. Besides herself, the only occupants were a pair of slightly shabby humans. The man and woman were dressed in the same rumpled, loose-fitting clothing that Miala herself had grown up wearing. Now, however, in her tailored synth-linen suit and tight brown boots, she looked no more like them than a Bathshevan water dancer did a cowherd.