Welcome to the jungle—where the found are lost and the lost are redeemed.
Riv is a man adrift, hoping that running supplies for ReliefCorp will restore his faith in mankind—and in himself. Deep in the war-torn Maltana rainforest, he stumbles upon a local bar that suits his mood: good food, bad attitude. The entertainment, though, is unexpected. A skilled piano player who avoids eye contact, flinches when anyone approaches…and warns Riv of an ambush by tapping out the planetary anthem for Riv’s homeworld of Karibee.
The least Riv can do for the mute piano man, “Ducks”, is take him to the nearest spaceport for help.
On their harrowing journey to escape Maltana, Riv makes a horrifying discovery. Ducks endured torture that scarred his mind as well as his body. Still, before he leaves the man safely in a treatment facility, Riv manages to earn what little trust Ducks has to give.
Months later they reconnect, and while it’s clear their instant attraction was no fluke, there’s still a piece missing. Ducks’ voice. To help him find it again, Riv will have to expose the painful past that tore a hole in his own life. And hope that together, their ragged edges will fit together to form a whole.
Warning: This book contains fluffy blond hair, sugary soda that will rot your teeth out, one unfortunate first name, and one mute amnesiac with a sarcasm fetish, all wrapped up in two selfless but mildly unstable guys who accidentally find their happily ever after. In SPACE!
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
The Balance of Silence
Copyright © 2010 by S. Reesa Herberth and Michelle Moore ISBN: 978-1-60928-191-5
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: September 2010
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The Balance of Silence
S. Reesa Herberth and Michelle Moore
Dedication
To Michelle, who gave me the stars.—SRH
For the two halves of my heart, with love. And coffee!—MSM
Chapter One
Riv pushed, and the ship sheared off below him, their parting as easy as breathing. Just letting go, as simple as that, and it was almost a disappointment when the lead attached to his harness caught him and he stopped abruptly a few feet away. The O2 monitor flashed across the visor, orange drifting towards red, and he cleared it away with unusually clumsy fingers, tapping at the controls set into the arm of his drift suit.
The indicator that he was nearing the end of his air scrubber capacity stayed visible in the corner of his mask, pushed aside for the schematic he called up again to double check his work. Satisfied that he’d cleaned up the mess caused by an errant bit of space junk puncturing the hull, he set to welding the panel back on. The shiny new metal looked like a fresh wound amidst the rest of the scarred and burned ship.
“Riv, you’re back in three minutes, max. The read says your scrubbers are giving out.” Marc’s voice was a crisp annoyance in his ear as he gathered up his tools, pressing the demagnetizing button to pry them up from the side of the ship and shove them back into his kit.
Just let go—
“Riv, answer me now, or I’m coming out to haul your ass in.”
“I’m here,” he groused back, breath fogging the visor for a second. “Gods, you are such an old woman, Marc.”
“Tell me I don’t have anything to worry about, and I’ll call you a liar to your face,” Marc hissed back, no doubt surrounded by the crew of the Hoku, the ship they’d been contracted to repair.
“I’m fine,” Riv said firmly, passing the strap of the toolkit around his chest and securing it before he headed back to the airlock. The Hoku didn’t have many handholds, so he was forced to use the magnets in his boots and gloves, crawling crablike along the hull until he could pull himself into the lock and hit the compression controls. Buffeted by the rush of air as it filled the chamber, he swayed before dropping the tools and leaning his back against the wall while he fumbled his helmet off. The first breath left him dizzy, as always.
Thankful for his few minutes of compression acclimation, and thus privacy, he dropped onto the metal bench that jutted out from the wall and put his head in his hands. He was only a week back, and he already felt the same frayed edges showing through, and all the meditation in the ’verse couldn’t seem to hold him together. The tumbling forms of two dead men, jettisoned like trash and spinning away into the black, replayed in his mind like a bad vid. He could still see them every time he closed his eyes. The dark alley where they’d died had become a permanent location in his mental geography, and the phantom weight of The Balance of Silence
the metal pipe as it connected with flesh sometimes seemed every bit as real as the wrench he’d stowed into his tool kit.
It didn’t help that the first face he saw when the inner door slid open was Marc’s, mouth tight with anger and fear. It was the same expression he’d worn as they’d slammed the airlock closed on the casualties of that gods-forsaken night four months ago. It could just as easily have been Marc himself set to spin in the dark forever, or Denny, or Riv, but it hadn’t been, and he seemed to be the only one who couldn’t be thankful for that fact and let things go.
“You need to fucking. Let. It. Go.” The words were bitten off with barely controlled fury, but Riv could only stare blankly for several seconds, too startled at having his own thoughts shot back at him to react.
Marc crowded into his space, looming over him. “I’m serious, Riv, you’re not going to off yourself on my watch. In fact, I value my own ass enough that I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen at all.
Captain’s holding me personally responsible for your well-being, and I really prefer to not let Bin down.”
Riv snickered, he couldn’t help himself. Not the wisest reaction, but the thought of Bin assigning Marc to babysitting duties was humorous, to say the least. Not that Marc wouldn’t do it, his mother-hen tendencies were legendary, but that Bin would ask.
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Marc said sourly.
“Just a little.” Riv hunched in on himself, staring stubbornly at the grated metal floor. If he met Marc’s eyes, it was going to quickly become evident just how not-funny he found the whole situation.
“Look, I’m okay, all right? You don’t need to worry.”
The disparaging snort spoke volumes, but to Riv’s relief, he didn’t press the matter. “Come on then, I think we’re done here. Ditch the suit and let’s get back to the Mel. These Hoku folk are just weird. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“You mean they’re normal.”
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
The engine room of the Melisande wasn’t the best place for an argument, and especially not when he was backed into the pit, Bin on one side of it and Marc on the other.
“You planning on braining me with a wrench?” Riv squinted up at them. “Because hanging over me like that is making me a little jumpy.”
Bin cro
ssed his arms, far from amused. “Don’t know why we’d waste the effort. You seem intent enough on taking care of that yourself.”
He hadn’t intended to have this conversation right now, and certainly not with a length of pipe jabbing him in the ribs and grease on his hands. He’d pictured something a bit more civilized, like maybe seated in the galley with something fortifying to drink. And an escape route, should things get uncomfortable. Which
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they already were, if the disapproving vibes drifting his way were any sign. It was kind of like a gentle rain of anvils.
“Actually, since I’ve got you both here, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.” Riv drew a deep breath, trying to ease some of the tension twisting his neck and shoulders. “I’m resigning my commission to join ReliefCorp.”
“The fuck you are,” Bin exploded before Marc could say anything.
Riv managed to not wince. Bin in a temper, a real temper that was, and not his usual bluff, was rare enough to be a little intimidating.
“I already submitted my application,” Riv said, trying to sound unruffled. “I’m scheduled to do a med run on Maltana week after next.”
Apparently it was enough to silence Marc as well, mouth slightly open as he stared. He did dart a quick sympathetic glance in Riv’s direction, but then his eyes snapped right back to Bin.
“Then I suggest you get your ass to the comm and tell them you won’t be able to make it.” Bin had recovered, voice as calm as Riv’s now, only the white-knuckled grip on the edge of the pit betraying his anger.
“Do you think we could move this conversation somewhere a little more comfortable? Where maybe we could sit down?”
Bin nodded. “I think that sounds like a fine idea. Someplace closer to the comm.”
Trudging after them to the bridge, it was pretty obvious that this wasn’t going to go smoothly. “Hear me out, okay?” Supposing that silence was nearly as good as acknowledgment, Riv sat in the comm chair with a sigh. “It’s not like I’m running away to join the circus or something.” He looked up to find both of them staring at him, Bin’s expression one of somewhat patient reserve, Marc’s just restrained annoyance. “I need to do this,” he said calmly. “I can’t live with myself this way, not anymore. Somewhere there has to be a balance between what I’ve done and how I live, but I can’t find it, and I need to be doing something more for the universe than patching up ships until I can.”
“It was self-defense, Riv. When are you going to get it through your head that you weren’t committing some random act of violence, you were saving the life of your friends? You think I’m happy about it? You think I’m the kind of guy who goes around killing people in cold blood?” Marc’s tired outrage was so familiar that Riv almost didn’t hear it anymore, but Bin just shook his head and put a quelling hand on Marc’s shoulder.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen officers with years of battle under their belts wake up one morning, sick with what they’ve done. Empire, homeworld, glory—none of it changes that one day you have to reconcile taking someone else’s life with the fact that you’re still kicking around the ’verse.” Bin leveled a dirty look at Riv and pointed his finger. “And running off somewhere and getting yourself killed isn’t the way you deal with it, you hear me? I’ve lost enough family already, don’t think you’ll be adding to the total.”
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“Wasn’t planning on it.” Riv kicked Marc’s ankle gently. “I just think that helping someone else might be the thing that forces me to get my head out of my ass.”
Marc mock glared at him and raised his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty drastic life change there, Riv. I mean, what if your ears get cold?”
“Bin can knit me a hat,” he said, smirking, and let the subject drop.
The ReliefCorp compound was only a block away from the spaceport, just far enough that Riv was sweating profusely in the steamy heat by the time he crossed under the clasped-hand logo on the barricaded gate. The barbwire fencing surrounding the compound was lined with people, families mostly, and the crowd swayed in his direction as the uniformed men waved him through, stopping only when the guards raised their weapons threateningly.
The briefing room was impossible to miss, the only space that wasn’t overflowing with equipment and boxes. Apparently he was the last one to arrive, and the other four people there eyed him with open curiosity.
“Sorry,” he said, willing down an embarrassed flush.
The woman standing next to the vid console, tall and lean, with sun-darkened skin only slightly lighter than his own, nodded brusquely. “Take a seat. I was just starting the briefing. My name’s Marta.”
He grabbed one of the empty folding chairs, trying not to look too guilty.
“Basically, what you have to remember at all times on Maltana is that ReliefCorp is a neutral civilian aid organization. At no point do we offer supplies to either side of the conflict. Obviously, if you’re threatened into doing so, your life is more important than the supplies, but we want immediate notification of the situation. Each jungle hopper is equipped with a distress beacon, and we can’t stress strongly enough that you must carry it with you if you’re outside the vehicle.”
Listening attentively, Riv tried not to imagine too many scenarios where using the beacon would be necessary, and how unlikely it was that a ship would be in orbit close enough to matter if he had to.
“Having said that, I know that you all volunteered to come here specifically.” Marta smiled grimly.
“Maltana doesn’t draw from our regular pool of volunteers these days.”
Riv knew what she wasn’t saying. He’d read the literature, seen the newsfeeds. Maltana was rapidly declining into the kind of place where the only improvement was escape, and people were doing desperate things to get off-world. Not many outsiders were jumping at the chance to be dumped into the middle of it, and with good reason.
He also knew that this was where he needed to be right now, all argument and logic to the contrary.
He’d already superimposed the face of the man he was serving this makeshift penance for on a dozen
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different people, and he was willing to trade a little of his own safety for the possibility that some day he’d be able to see his own face in the mirror without an instant press of regret and self-loathing.
“Zone 18, Terraform district 11,” Marta said, and the map unfolded across the vid wall, the terrain view a bright purple overlay against both the lush rainforest and the dark brown strips of cleared land.
“Maltana only has one large population center, and you’re standing in it. For a planet of this size, that’s nearly unheard of. Part of it is the rainforest. It means there’s little-to-no farmland in any given zone. Most of it, though, is that the controlling planetary agencies have actively discouraged any kind of long-term settlement by moving the workers around so much. You’ll find a few trade outposts, a bar here and there, but most of those are leftover buildings from vacated job sites.” She tapped the far edge of the map, zooming in on an area that seemed to have been deforested like a checkerboard, then glanced down at her notebook screen.
“River—”
“Just Riv,” he cut in hastily, cursing his parents and the request for a full given name on every form he’d ever had to fill out. He didn’t miss the smirk she leveled at him, or the repressed snort of laughter.
“Right then, Riv, you’ll be dropped here, right on the edge of Zone 5. You can see by the growth here, it hasn’t been worked in decades, and the way the fighting is going, it’s not likely to be revisited any time soon. Zone 5 is one of the first work centres, and it’s got one of the largest populations because of it.
People stayed behind when
the work crews moved on here, established their own claims on the land. It’s an insular area, made more so by the cutoff of any interzone traffic in the past few months. There are six main ReliefCorp stations you’ll be delivering to, and a MedAid clinic.”
“Got it. Do you have an estimation of how long the run should take me?”
She ran a pointer over the map, following a path that was mostly green. “It’s going to be slow going.
Overgrowth after clear-cutting tends to come back thick, thick enough that even hoppers have trouble getting through.” Lips pursed, she took a step back. “We plan on three planetary weeks. You’re not setting up stations, just dropping supplies, so once you get to each one, you won’t be staying long. Obviously things happen though, so we don’t start worrying until we hit four weeks without contact.”
“And after four weeks?”
“We hope that the next person making that run finds you.”
“Probably as remains.” This from a man sitting to Riv’s left, tipped back in his chair and smiling.
“We’re pretty proud of the fact that our loss percentages are a lot lower than any other aid agencies operating in such…problematic areas. But you all were made more than aware of the hazards of this job.
Some of you probably volunteered for that very reason.” Her eyes skimmed the room. “And not to make judgments based on looks, but you all seem like you’re a decent bet to keep our percentages where they are.”
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“Now you wouldn’t be hinting that we’re all here on a suicide mission, would you?” drawled the man in the very back of the room.
Riv had to think that if there was someone who looked likely to get himself killed, it was this guy.
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