From Ruins

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  "The local predators," Sediryl said. "So far they've stayed away. We're hoping they keep making that choice."

  "They?" Vasiht'h asked.

  And then the howling started, a chorus so deeply unsettling he stumbled to his feet. "Aksivaht'h protect us!"

  But Sediryl wasn't looking toward the noise. She was staring at the Queen. Vasiht'h turned and found the Chatcaavan coiling into a ball and whimpering. He ran a hand over her back, between the wings, felt her violent trembling.

  "Is she awake?" Sediryl asked, urgent.

  "No," Vasiht'h said, feeling it through the Chatcaavan's skin with the inevitability of an oncoming tide. "But she knows those noises, and she's afraid."

  Sediryl frowned, and started for the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to find out what they are."

  Before he could protest, she vanished into the corridor, leaving him with his patient. Vasiht'h gathered her into his arms as she shook. He wasn't sure if chasing down alien predators on an unknown world was a good idea, but better that than waiting for the hunters to hunt them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jahir was dreaming.

  He spent most of his time dreaming now. He thought. Of fire and fever. Of thirst. Of monsters, prowling his mind, the halls, the stairwells. So many of them. In his occasional lucid moments, he listened to the Usurper and his newest underlings planning their defense of the throneworld. They had packed the palace to the brim with the Usurper's supporters, filling suites intended for a single lord and his retinue with fighters, bunking together like in a barracks. The servants cowered in the background, or avoided being seen at all, if they could; he touched their dreams and saw their thoughts, and pitied their terror. What soothing he could afford was minimal, but he did his best.

  But he dreamed, and his dreams were real, and the skies distorted around the presence of the enemy, burgeoning in orbit, choking off the clean cool touch of moonlight and stars. Because his dreams were real, because they were a glittering net more real than the blood streaking his chin and the breath too strained and the wrists that shook in their shackles, he combed his fingertips against the ships that arrived, more every hour. The Usurper filled his skies with constellations of hatred and cruelty. He thought they augured his safety. His success.

  Jahir's dreams were real, and his body was not, was a failing shell that spent too much time now deprived of sight, sound, too much time gagged without love or promise of freedom. He remembered-thought he remembered-whispering news into someone's ear, as if he had become only a conduit. Sometimes he knew it was Tsonet. Sometimes it was Oviin, whom he knew to be a ghost, kin to him between worlds. Knowledge passed through him into those listening ears, was gone, swift as water coursing, and his thirst was terrible and constant, and his hunger.

  His body was not real. Once upon a time he had been stretched like this, in this divine everyplace, everytime. He'd had an anchor then: the love of his partner, solid as truth, as earth underfoot; the music he'd sung to a cousin, who'd loved him enough to tie him up and set him free. He had no such anchors now.

  That made his reach limitless. He was become the Silence Between Stars, and all feared his passage.

  "There is nothing I can do about this... this incursion," Kuuvel said. For once there was no jocularity in the male, and the Surgeon missed it. "The situation is completely out of control. Bad enough that they're stacking ships in-system like they're going to war, but all of them are acting crazy."

  "Crazy?" the Surgeon asked, frowning. "Crazy how?"

  Kuuvel huffed. "My diagnosis lacking in specificity?" He leaned forward. "They keep coming into my office for mental issues. Sleep problems. Reporting one another for paranoia-the irony, it slays me. They're even having fights. Not duels, but random outbreaks of violence. It's nonsensical. If I hadn't known better, I'd have wondered if they'd been too long on deployment and sent them all to the planet to stretch their wings. But they don't have that excuse. All I can guess is that whatever the Emperor's up to in his bower is distressing the males in charge, and their agitation is spreading to everyone else."

  That was possible-hysteria did spread through proximal groups-but not probable. Something in his face divulged his unease, because Kuuvel said, "What? You know something?"

  "My guess is just that," the Surgeon said. "And unbelievable."

  "But?"

  "Would you believe alien retribution?"

  Kuuvel guffawed. Then stopped at the look on the Surgeon's face. "You're not making a bad joke."

  The Surgeon snorted. "Bad jokes are your purview, not mine."

  "True. So... what. Some kind of biological warfare?"

  "Not... precisely. And I may be wrong. But if I'm not, it will only get worse." Until the alien died. "For now. What of the preparations?"

  "That part is going according to plan, thank the capricious Air. This... disorder... amid the ranks makes it less likely our confederates will be discovered about our business." Kuuvel canted his head. "The military males are receiving the falsified data. What do you want done with the real data?"

  What indeed. He and Kuuvel had suborned the males who maintained the sensor platforms ringing the throneworld system, an act that would have been impossible had the Usurper not threatened the sanctity of Outside. But the Usurper had, and that threat had been sufficient, combined with his other excesses, to convince their brethren that their lives were endangered by the current regime. A male who observed neither honor nor convention was a menace to society.

  The Surgeon's goal was to ease the true Emperor's way back into the system, and mangling the data that would give the Usurper's fleet warning of his arrival had been Kuuvel's idea, and an excellent one. Just as this idea was. "It would be useful if our replacement were to have access to the data those platforms had on the positioning of the vessels in-system. That being your suggestion?"

  "It was how my thoughts were running, yes."

  The Surgeon raised his brow ridges. "If I hadn't known any better, I'd wonder if you had gone to bed medical and woken up military."

  The other male waved it off airily. "You consort with enough people who think a certain way, you learn how they think. That's why you're down there scheming the overturn of a warlord. Too long amid courtiers."

  Was that it? The Surgeon wondered. "Between the two of us, we have the site sewn up. At least, the site we have access to."

  "Let's hope the patient survives." Kuuvel grinned. "How about we come up with a passcode so we can connect these two sets of people, mmm?"

  "And what would that passcode be?"

  Kuuvel tapped his nose with a finger. "Do you remember the Surgeon-Master's favorite word?"

  Startled back into the memory of those days of schooling, the Surgeon said, "How could I forget. Every day, it was ‘check for....'"

  "That," Kuuvel said when the Surgeon halted. "That's our code word." He wiggled his brow ridges. "Not that I don't trust our encryption, but you never know. Yes?"

  "Yes," the Surgeon said. "And thank you."

  Kuuvel chuckled, but he ran a hand down the length of his nose, and revealed fleetingly his fatigue. "'Thank you' is all well and good, but not enough. Buy me a drink when all this is over."

  "Just so long as you don't sneak a fake body part into it."

  "You take all the fun out of things," Kuuvel complained.

  "Fine," the Surgeon said. "Slip a fake body part into someone else's drink and we'll watch. Unlike me, they'll be surprised by it."

  "Now that's a plan I can back," Kuuvel replied. "'Til later, O Meticulous one." He saluted impudently before cutting the connection.

  The Surgeon leaned back on his stool, resting his palms flat on his desk. Their plans were proceeding as well as could be expected with the limited tools they had. Better than the Surgeon had hoped. His initial plan, to kill off the Usurper's lackeys, had become impractical with so many of those males now in the palace. It no longer felt like a court, but like a military ba
se, and the fear and unease that animated the civilian Chatcaava who remained were palpable. The Surgeon had patients again; the Usurper might have outlawed dueling, but that didn't stop the males from having fights similar to the ones reported by Kuuvel, no matter how ill-considered it was for the outnumbered court males to agitate their new guards. There was no packing so many restless males in one place without fights.

  And the alien wasn't helping. Or rather he was, because these fights were injuring and sometimes killing the Usurper's minions. But the Usurper hadn't responded to the Surgeon's request for an opportunity to examine the alien, and the Surgeon didn't doubt Tsonet's reports that the alien was failing. Knowing how much energy the alien's strange powers required... no. The Surgeon had no doubt the alien was spending himself in the hallways and bedchambers of the palace. And maybe even beyond that. Was he capable of reaching orbit from here? The idea was appalling, and intriguing. These abilities-were they common among aliens? The Ambassador hadn't had them, or he would have wrought havoc out of legend on arrival.

  He was still considering the implications when Triage looked in the room. "Surgeon. You're wanted in the Emperor's suite."

  Was he? Had the male changed his mind? The Surgeon swept his medical kit up, paused and thought better of it. If the alien was as badly off as Tsonet reported, he'd need extra tools. "I'll be in the supply room, and then I'll go up. Call me through the kit's channel if anyone comes in while I'm busy. I might not be near a console, but I'll have the kit with me wherever I am."

  "Yes, sir."

  It took a good quarter of an hour to assemble the larger pack, and then there were more delays. There was no flying to the Emperor's tower; the previous Emperor might have permitted it for emergencies, but this one didn't, and the males on duty at the bottom of the tower made it inadvisable to try with their baleful stares. The Surgeon went up the interminable stairs, wondering what he would find at the top.

  What he found was Tsonet... alone. With the alien, in the bathing chamber.

  "Finally!" Tsonet said. "We have most of the day. The Tyrant's gone... off with one of his cronies to look into some problem in orbit. We might not have this chance again, the idiot had to be pried out of his study with a lever. He doesn't like leaving." The castrate backed away. "We had to seize this chance while we could."

  Crouching alongside, the Surgeon could see why. If the alien survived to see the current Emperor ousted, the Surgeon would be surprised. Or would have been; at least he had a chance to arrest some of the worst of the damage. Carefully he turned the alien's face, staring at the talon-marks, too bright a scarlet around the glue. The inflammation was acute. "These have not healed."

  "I tried," Tsonet said. "I kept them clean. I put antiseptic on them. It's like he doesn't want them to heal."

  Not out of the question; the Surgeon had seen males sabotage their own recuperation with their minds alone. He hadn't thought the alien prone to that particular issue, when the alien must want to see his own kind again. The Surgeon examined the other wounds around the mouth, in it. All of them had become infected, but none of them would have troubled a healthy male, even a healthy alien. The process by which the male was disguising himself... that had to be the source of the trouble. Something was depressing the alien's ability to fight the infections.

  Setting his hand to the alien's chest, he tried framing his thoughts and injecting them. /Healer. I require consultation on a case./

  Had he failed? There was no response for so long he began a second attempt when he heard the words, so distant they sounded like whispers. /...what?/

  /Ah, so you are lucid./ The Surgeon bent over, pried the alien's eyelids apart. Pupil response was sluggish for a Chatcaavan. He had no idea if it was normal for an alien.

  /It's not./

  That the alien was using the Surgeon's eyes to study himself was disturbing, but at least it saved time. /Can you make this diagnosis?/

  A long pause. Then: /I look like hell./

  The Surgeon said, droll, /Colorful but hardly useful. Be more specific. What do I do with you? You are radically undernourished and fighting infection. I do not wish this infection to become systemic. I don't know how to treat one of you, other than dropping you in a gel tank, and the current Emperor does not want you healed./

  /He doesn't?/

  /I must presume so, as he has not responded to my requests to attend you./ The Surgeon looked at his readings, compared them to the few he had from the Ambassador's stay. The Ambassador hadn't been healthy long though; the Surgeon didn't think measuring this alien's health against an alien who'd been dying from hekkret and alcohol poisoning would yield much by way of useful data. /It is for us to keep you alive as long as possible. I include you in that group, as you have confessed to having some medical knowledge, more than I do about your particular species. You will want to succeed. I assume you wish to live to see your homeworld again, and whatever intimates you have./

  "Is he trying to die?" Tsonet asked. "Is he working himself to death?"

  The Surgeon glanced at him.

  "Ask him," Tsonet said. "Ask him if he's wandering around at night with..." The male twirled a finger in front of his brow. "With whatever it is that makes him able to influence thoughts."

  /Well?/ the Surgeon asked.

  Chagrin now, a bitter taste under the Surgeon's tongue. /It isn't intentional. That world is now more real than this one. That is all./

  /That is not acceptable./ The Surgeon prepared another line. He had brought nutritive fluids with him... the least he could do was make up for the starvation. /This is the world you must inhabit./

  The alien opened both eyes. The irises were usually a good color, an almost Chatcaavan yellow, and the sclera, if large by their standards, a healthy white. Now they were too red. Cloudy. The Surgeon couldn't guess what was causing that: inflammation of some part of the eye? Subconjunctival hemorrhage? Something particular to aliens?

  /You have strong opinions about my survival./

  /The Ambassador lanced the wound that was killing this empire./ The Surgeon checked his list of antibiotics against the databanks in the hopes of finding one that had been used successfully in an alien. /For whatever reason, your kind are necessary to the recovery process. That includes you./

  The alien narrowed his eyes, and there was humor in it somehow. Kindness. /And?/

  The Surgeon glared at him. /Surely that is sufficient./

  /You're curious, aren't you,/ the alien murmured. /An alien healer. You wonder what my training was like. What I know. You wonder if the experiences are similar./ A pause. /You're... lonely?/

  It struck the Surgeon as ridiculous that this half-dead alien should be analyzing anyone's mental condition. Ridiculous, and provocative. Did the aliens do this to everyone? Was that the secret, the one that made it possible for them to rend empires? /To be Outside,/ he said at last, /is to be safe./ He added, /I have colleagues./

  /That you rarely talk with?/

  The Surgeon thought of Kuuvel, whom he'd only contacted because of this emergency, and whom he'd missed. He put his regrets aside. /Do you always waste your energy when you're ill? You should stop hunting my vulnerabilities and concentrate on your own./

  /I have never found that to be a good idea,/ the alien said. /Even when it's a bad one./

  The Surgeon leaned over and stared into his eyes. /You will rest. And treat this world as the real one, or I will make you by having Tsonet threaten you./

  /With what?/ the alien asked, but the interest was muted. Somehow through this... link... the Surgeon could sense him receding into... what? Some fog?

  /With the suffering of innocents,/ the Surgeon answered. /This seems to have been sufficient motivation for your predecessor./

  /It is the suffering of innocents that leads me to spend myself abroad./

  /And your lack of consciousness accomplishes this... how?/

  The words fell away and something surged into their place, ensnaring the Surgeon and pulling him until th
e ground collapsed from under him and he found himself spreading out in every direction. Everywhere he turned his attention, he found a knot of sickness, pulsing, and for the briefest of breaths the power coursed through him to slide into those knots and smooth them until the disease dissipated and a clean wind blew back into his nostrils.

  The Surgeon jerked back, eyes wide. Through the palm still resting on the alien's chest, the alien whispered, /I am the Silence Between Stars./

  The Surgeon believed it, and knew instantly that he could not allow it to stand. /You have a name./

  /I have a title./ Distantly. /More than one.../

  /You have a name,/ the Surgeon insisted, bending close enough to stare into the slack face. The alien's eyes were closed. He willed them to open. /Tell me your name./

  /Names... names are for chattel./

  /I was born Sehkvit./

  That at last won him a flutter of lashes sticky with rheum. /You have a name./

  /I have given you my name. Tell me yours./

  A very long pause. Then: /Jahir. Jahir Seni Galare./

  /Then, Jahir Seni Galare... you will stop this... spreading. That is a command from your physician. Do you know why?/

  A touch of humor, and beneath it... fear? The Surgeon was surprised to sense it, so ephemeral. The alien was afraid he was dying, and he didn't want to. /Why?/

  /Because your allies will need your ultimate efforts on their arrival./

  The alien's eyes focused on him, pupils constricting. /What? They're coming?/

  /They must. And the Usurper knows this, or he wouldn't have invited so many of his partisans here to protect him. This... act... you accomplish. You can reach all the way off the world, can't you./

  /Yes./

  The Surgeon quelled his shudder, his astonishment. /You must save this ability so that you can deploy it at the best moment. You understand that, don't you? Save your strength./

  /I can do that,/ the alien whispered.

  /Then do. But vow it to me on your name. The Ambassador kept his word, and by that I know it means something to you. So swear./