In Extremis

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  The Usurper snorted, resuming his seat behind the desk. “You will not save it without disposing of me. And you’ll find that task difficult chained to a wall. Now, freak. You will be silent.”

  “You will not discipline me as you told the Twelveworld Lord?”

  The Usurper woke his displays. “When you require discipline I will administer it. But I will do so according to my own judgment, alien… not when one of my underlings decides it’s necessary.” He glanced up. “And if you continue talking, I will re-evaluate my decision. Understood?”

  Obediently Jahir remained mute, and the Chatcaavan hissed once—satisfaction? Amusement? And resumed working. Behind him, the fleets on the map glowed their angry, luminous red.

  “You said what?” Oviin demanded, eyes wide.

  “I said Second was going to betray him.” Jahir pulled the blanket tighter around his body and tried to control his shivering. His sessions on the wall always left him chilled, but this was the first time the steam from the bath hadn’t helped. Was this weakness growing worse? How could he tell, when he never felt strong?

  He could no longer feel his fingertips at all, or the tip of his nose.

  “Is he? Did you hear something?” Oviin asked.

  “I… no. A guess on my part.” He mustered the energy to mumble, “Educated one.”

  “Ambassador?” Oviin’s voice became distressed. “Ambassador, you’re listing. You must eat.”

  “Yes,” Jahir murmured, and then jumped as an atonal noise assaulted his eardrums, as if it was inside his head. A voice followed it: “Roquelaure malfunction detected. Initiating diagnostic tests. Advanced functions will be offline until testing is complete.”

  “Ambassador!” Oviin caught him. “Are you ill? I’ll send for the Surgeon.”

  “I… yes… that… thank you…” Jahir sagged into the Chatcaavan’s arms and lost time, and light, and didn’t remember closing his eyes.

  When he opened them, the Surgeon’s face was hovering over his, wearing an expression common to healers the worlds over: professional interest combined with a grim frown. Jahir became aware of a hand on his chest just before the words fell into him, past far too porous skin.

  /Do you have a wasting disease my instruments cannot detect?/

  /I… no./

  The Surgeon’s eyes thinned. /Then why have I had to start you on intravenous feeding? You are radically undernourished./

  /I’m not sure,/ Jahir confessed. /But I think it may be related to an implant./

  /Can this implant be deactivated?/

  /No./

  The Surgeon’s sigh brought an agitated Oviin into view. “He wakes! Is he dying?”

  “He’s not dying,” the Surgeon said. “But as is customary with these aliens, he’s doing his best to.” He scowled at Jahir. “I can’t take care of you without more information.”

  “If I had it to give,” Jahir managed, and his voice was a croak he barely recognized. “I would give it.”

  Through their touch, the Surgeon said, each word sharp and edged in the acrid smell of a surgical theater, /You’re absolutely certain you can’t do something about this implant. Starving you to death is presumably not its function./

  /Certainly not,/ Jahir agreed, resigned. /That’s an unfortunate side effect of its ability to power itself off my body energy. And it’s… malfunctioning. I think it has been since it was inserted. And I don’t know why, or what that means./

  The Surgeon sighed and raised his hands off Jahir’s skin. To Oviin, he said, “I will have to come more often. His health is more marginal than my first examination suggested. I will inform the Emperor.” He eyed Jahir. “Do you have anything else to tell me, alien?”

  “No,” Jahir said. “But… a question, perhaps.”

  Oviin strangled a noise that inspired an inquisitive look from the Surgeon. The former said, “The questions these aliens ask. You will see.”

  “I could be asking something trivial,” Jahir offered. The more he used his voice, the clearer it became, thankfully. “Like how much water I should be drinking, or whether there was some more efficient way to consume my calories.”

  “But you’re not going to,” Oviin said. “There’s a look on your face. I recognize it.”

  “Is he right?” the Surgeon asked, curious.

  “Would you kill a patient?”

  The Surgeon blinked his lambent eyes.

  “You see?” Oviin muttered.

  “Why would I want to?” the Surgeon asked.

  “Say a male came into the clinic who was planning to kill your family.”

  The Surgeon snorted. “No one would kill my family, Ambassador. I am Outside. The point of being Outside is that violence cannot be perpetrated against me.”

  “Very well,” Jahir murmured. “If he was going to kill a world? Lay waste to the galaxy?”

  Oviin shuddered.

  “Your hypotheticals are not very hypothetical,” the Surgeon observed, checking the bag of fluid emptying into Jahir’s body.

  “It is just a scenario,” Jahir said. “I am curious whether Chatcaavan healers take an oath.”

  The Surgeon’s head rose.

  “Alliance healers do. We pledge to do no harm to our patients.”

  “Only aliens would think that necessary,” the Surgeon said, packing his tools. “The point of medicine is the opposite of harm.”

  “So you would never use your abilities to kill.”

  “Ambassador,” the Surgeon said, “if I did, I would be Inside. And then I would no longer be protected by my status as one Outside.”

  “He speaks sense,” Oviin agreed. “To be Inside is to suffer.”

  Jahir waited until the Surgeon touched him again to remove the attachment. /I notice you did not answer the question./

  The Surgeon freed the pad that had yoked Jahir to the fluids and swabbed the skin under it with a disinfectant that smelled distinctly herbal. His demeanor remained impassive, focused. But he answered, /Once, long ago, an Emperor asked a Surgeon if he would give safe haven to his Queen if he was challenged by a male who might win. That Surgeon agreed./

  /You are already Inside,/ Jahir murmured. /How cagey you were when first you saw me here, about that./

  /What else? So long as no one knows, I might survive long enough to do ‘no harm’ to the patient I find myself more and more interested in. The health of this empire./

  Jahir nodded. /Would you do it? Kill with your talents?/

  /Yes./ The Surgeon met his eyes, evaluating. /So, you are a healer./

  /Yes./

  /Why would you hesitate?/

  /Because death ends every possibility of healing,/ Jahir said. /And I believe in redemption./

  The Surgeon did sigh then, quietly. Through their skins, Jahir sensed his exhaustion, his resignation, the years of experience treating males shredded by the honor duels of the court, the years of observation of its waste and caprice. The male said no more, and Jahir didn’t try to prompt him.

  “I will speak to the Emperor,” the Surgeon said to Oviin. “Your reports have been useful, but it is no substitute for personal inspection. Expect me more frequently.”

  “Yes, my-better.”

  The departure of the Surgeon brought Oviin to Jahir’s side, wings half-spread and hands lifted, palm out. “Ambassador,” he said. “So many apologies. Your decline was not obvious to this one, and should have been prevented…”

  “Oviin-alet, please,” Jahir said, closing his eyes. “It is immaterial to what needs to be done here.” The roquelaure issued a muted chime, more harmonious this time, and whispered, “Testing in progress. Advanced functions are offline.” Ignoring it, he said, “Have we heard anything?”

  “We must not speak of these things aloud anymore,” Oviin whispered. “This… this touching with the mind. Will you do it?”

  Jahir glanced up at him.

  “You will ask if I am certain,” Oviin continued. “But I must be. If you die, Ambassador… what then?”

>   “Then, it will all be up to you,” Jahir murmured. “In a way, it already is.”

  Oviin smothered a moan and covered his face with the side of his forearm.

  “You can handle the responsibility,” Jahir promised.

  “It is not that,” Oviin cried. “If you die, I will have failed one of the few good Chatcaava ever to pass through this palace. She will be disconsolate.”

  “We cannot have that.”

  “No.” The Chatcaavan extended his hands, palm up. “Touch is required, or so it has been said.”

  “I do not require touch anymore, but I find it helps.” Jahir cupped one of Oviin’s hands. “One last chance to say no, alet.”

  Oviin frowned at him and said, emphatically, “Yes.”

  /Then here I am, alet./

  The Chatcaavan gasped aloud, free hand flying to his nose. His shock tasted like the slap of a saltwater wave.

  /Yes?/ Jahir asked. /You can answer without speaking./

  /This is… like a dream!/ Oviin tensed. /Oh, I can do it too!/

  /Only because I am enabling it. If you would wish to do this yourself, without my aid, you would have to learn the shape./ Even as he said it, Jahir wondered how much of his ability would cross over with the pattern. Would he inadvertently create a Chatcaavan mind-mage? Had Lisinthir already done so by gifting his pattern to the Emperor and Queen? Or would it not work because when Lisinthir had shared the pattern, he had not yet—how had Vasiht’h called it—mind-blossomed?

  /It is… / A pause filled with emotions that spread like dye in water. Wonder. Curiosity. Unease. /Astonishing./ Those emotions tightened into a grid, subjected to a discipline Jahir found fascinating to watch. /You were going to show me the map./

  /Yes. But an experiment first?/

  The Chatcaavan canted his head, quizzical.

  /Here. Listen./ Jahir offered up his memories of the visit of the Twelveworld Lord, as many of them as he could clearly recall.

  /There are gaps?/

  /My memory is imperfect./

  Oviin scowled. /You really did tell them Second is a traitor./

  /I did./ Jahir thought of the Surgeon. /I may not be the best person for this work./

  /Hanging on a wall does seem too passive for you./ Oviin’s frown grew more pronounced. /The Twelveworld Lord wants you. I knew he was perverse but not that he was interested in aliens. He has never been invited to use the Emperor’s slaves. I wonder if he wanted to./

  /Perhaps he keeps such slaves at home,/ Jahir replied. /It would explain his close connections with pirates: he might purchase from them./

  Oviin made a disapproving noise. /Your joints hurt a great deal. You should go into the water now./

  /The map?/

  /Yes. Then you must rest./

  Jahir passed him the image, felt his exacting attention on it. /You have it./

  /Yes./ Aloud, Oviin said, “Into the water, please.” Once he’d slid into the tub, Oviin murmured, /Our correspondents cannot immediately respond to us. But when they reach a place of safety, where they can check messages, all that we’ve sent them will be waiting./

  /All of it?/

  Oviin met his gaze. /In your mind, I see all the maps previous. I will tell them about those as well./

  Breathless, Jahir whispered, “You can do that?”

  Oviin canted his head. “You cannot?”

  They lapsed into silence as Oviin began washing him. Once Jahir had objected to the service, but he had become too prone to faints to attend to himself. Nor, he admitted, did he wish to turn away a friendly touch. His attendant was not his only helpmeet in this place, but he was the closest to becoming a friend. Perhaps would be, one day, when they were both free.

  /Tonight,/ Oviin promised, after he’d dried Jahir and seen him back to his pallet. /I will send them tonight./

  Feeling the brush of that palm on his shoulder, Jahir murmured, /Shall I teach you the Change?/

  /Another time, perhaps. Soon./

  Autonomy, always. Jahir sent his silent acquiescence and felt the Chatcaavan’s surprise, so soft, like clouds in sunrise.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I go,” the Ambassador told him. “Though increasingly I think I should not.” The Eldritch waited to see if the Emperor would object, but the Emperor didn’t know any longer what he wanted, or more importantly, whether his sessions with Laniis were accomplishing anything for either of them. Perhaps his ambivalence was too evident, for the Eldritch sighed and leaned down to rest his brow against the Emperor’s. “One more day, then.”

  “For now,” the Emperor murmured, accepting the intimacy on the less sensitive skin of a dragon’s face. Soon enough he would trade façades. He would keep this one and its illusion of armor for a little longer.

  “Uuvek says we should be passing a drop later.”

  “I saw.”

  “I wish we could go faster,” the Ambassador said, rolling his shoulders. “Knowing how swift this vessel is makes our dawdling all the more frustrating.”

  “Too much faster and we would make it difficult to keep our communications secure,” the Emperor said. “Better that than to be caught, Perfection.”

  “I know.”

  The Emperor chuckled softly. “The hunt does not reward the impatient.”

  “And yet, it calls, does it not?” The Eldritch’s eyes glimmered with dark amusement. “I leave you to your morning.”

  “I’ll join you and Uuvek afterward.”

  At the door, his lover paused and said, “Don’t let her destroy you, Exalted.”

  That he was becoming more concerned that she would destroy herself seemed too private a revelation to share, so he contented himself by saying, “I won’t. I have too much to do.”

  The Eldritch considered him for several moments, eyes grave, and then left the Emperor to his work: in this case, writing directions to the Chatcaava who’d responded to the Knife’s encoded messages. As he’d expected, all of them so far hailed from the less prestigious Southern and Western sectors; what did surprise him was that their enmity for the Chatcaava of the more industrialized regions easily overrode the inter-sector rivalry between the Navy and the system lords. In at least two cases, the system lord and a Naval representative had sent him a message as a unit. How long had that been going on, he wondered? And how had he not known about it? Obviously, they’d put their intelligence agents to work fooling Apex-East, where all such reports were funneled.

  So much resentment, and he’d only been aware of most of it. Had the Usurper and Second only accelerated a process he would have been powerless to halt? The Emperor flicked through the tablet until he found the first of Uuvek’s memos on the state of the Navy. Had Uuvek’s projections about the probable lifespan of the Empire been correct all along?

  Maybe he was not entirely to blame for what had happened. Andrea would tell him not to take more on his shoulders than belonged there, and forgive himself his failings. Laniis, of course, would tell him he deserved it, and that he should burn in a Pelted hell.

  Where was Khaska?

  The Emperor checked the time. “Computer? Where is Lieutenant Baker?”

  “Lieutenant Baker is in the observation lounge.”

  Perplexed, the Emperor set the tablet down. He had been on the Silhouette long enough to notice the computer was cagey about releasing information on the Fleet personnel’s location to non-Fleet passengers. Had the Seersa been occupied in Fleet business, she would have been reported ‘unavailable.’ He searched for a help file for more information: apparently, Fleet personnel could never be unavailable or set to do-not-disturb to other Fleet members, except by senior officers in special circumstances. Civilians, however, had finer control over their privacy settings. He wondered if the Ambassador was responsible for setting theirs and found he didn’t care one way or the other. How often had he assumed his own privacy inviolate as someone with power? And it had allowed him the illusion of security.

  He set the tablet aside as he rose. Eldritch? Hum
an? Chatcaavan? He chose Dainty’s more delicate appearance and studied himself in the mirror… combed his hair back with his fingers and pulled on the sweatshirt Andrea had brought him, and the soft pants. It was an unlikely shape, but the longer he spent in it while not naked or painted and pierced, the more he sensed its potential. For normalcy, and strangely, for strength. The wingless put their power elsewhere: he’d seen it in their bodies, in the density of their muscles and their solid bones. If he exerted himself to develop that same power, would it translate into his Chatcaavan self? And how?

  Shaking his much-lighter head, the Emperor went in search of his taskmistress.

  The observation lounge was sited aft and on the highest deck, a placement he could appreciate; the designers could have as easily set it on the lowest deck, since space surrounded a ship in all directions, but the instinct for height appeared to be common to all their species. He stepped through the hatch into a long room, built along the back curve of the ship, and saw his quarry sitting on one of the couches facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The sound of the door made her ears twitch. She sat up to look over the back of the couch, then slid back down. “I guess Chatcaava don’t waste space on observation decks in their warships.”

  “On the contrary,” the Emperor said. “We also like a view.” He stayed by the door. “Am I intruding?”

  “It’s a public room.”

  “Lieutenant,” the Emperor said, and couldn’t help the chiding in his voice.

  That made her look over at him again. “All right, fine. That was unworthy of me. Yes, you can come in.”

  The Emperor drifted closer, not wanting to crowd her. “You did not come for our appointment.”

  “No.”

  “Have I failed your test?”

  “Is that what it was?” she asked, ears flattening. “Was I testing you? Or was I trying to crush you?”

  “Is ‘both’ an acceptable answer to you?”

  “No. Of course not.” He was close enough now to watch her lips pull back in a grimace. “I’m not a torturer.”

  Like you, he heard in her abrupt end, and knew she was thinking it.